The Allurement
by whats up with jeremiah
Summary: Afraid his uncle was going to kill him, Harry runs away to Diagon Alley to stay there for the remainder of the Summer. Little does he know that one simple burst of accidental magic and one late night stroll will have changed everything he's ever known and everything he's ever been. SLASH, Vampire!OC/Harry, (set in the summer before 5th year onward)
1. Chapter 1

Full description: Afraid his uncle was going to kill him, Harry runs away to Diagon Alley to stay there for the remainder of the Summer. Little does he know that one simple burst of accidental magic and one late night stroll will have changed everything he's ever known and everything he's ever _been_. SLASH, Vampire!OC/Harry, (set in the summer before 5th year onward)

Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: slash (which, for the less well rounded fanfiction readers, means male pairings), swearing, mentions of abuse, sexual themes which likely will break T, other possible unsavory themes- you've been warned!

Reviewers are, of course, welcome and encouraged. Flames are welcome, yet not quite so encouraged.

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Harry didn't know which was worse: the perpetually dry condition of his hands from all the scrubbing or the constant layer of sweat on his skin from the heat. On one hand, the dry soap that had been neglected to be rinsed off chaffed on his palms but, on the other, the sweat provided an unrivaled greasiness that made his scalp crawl.

Both had their merits yet, at the moment, arteries swelling and skin blistering and head broiling under the torrid heat of the sun, the only thing he could think of was how much he hated Aunt Petunia's garden. Her stupid garden. With stupid begonias. And equally stupid avens, marigolds, sunflowers, and thorny roses. All sweltering and stewing like fried fish. Not unlike himself, dressed awkwardly in a long sleeve shirt that stuck to his back and bent over the ruddy _flowers_.

Yes, the sweat was most definitely worse. At least when he scrubbed the dishes he could take quick swigs from a sink brimming with gloriously cold water. Cold water: a phrase which was both foreign to him, the hose, and the watering can.

Hot sun and grubby soil and stubborn weeds were, nevertheless, intimately familiar. Along with hot, undrinkable water.

It was times like these when the only thought that rebounded in his head was, _I can't wait for school to start_.

A thick voice with the consistency of mustard rang in his ears, "Boy!"

Harry turned his head with a dazed look, rubbing at his brow and guarding his eyes from the sun.

Vernon, who looked as plump and sausage-like as ever, glowered at him and tightened his tie until it receded under his chin, "I am going to gone until later this evening, now, I don't want any funny business to occur while I'm gone, if you give Dudley or Petunia any trouble-"

"There will be consequences, I know," the boy recited, shoulders drooping as he rubbed at his calloused fingers.

He sniffed and grappled onto a scuffed briefcase, "What will you do when..."

"Strictly chores."

"Yes," the man grumbled, which was as close to praise as he ever got before he allowed Harry to turn his attention back to the begonias.

Hearing the key clink into the ignition and the dinky little car rumble away down the street, the boy sipped from the mouth of the hose and staggered to his feet.

Things were much better when he kept his head down and his hands busy; even if it meant pruned fingers and a drenched forehead, it also meant a lot less bruises.

Wiping off his shoes on the doormat, he ducked into the house and scrambled into the kitchen.

Aunt Petunia looked up at him with pursed lips from the kitchen table, her ring finger and thumb pinching onto a crisp magazine page poised in mid air.

"Ma'am."

She blinked, "Yes?"

"Can I have a glass of water?"

"May I," she coughed.

"_May I_ have a glass of water?"

Her eyes narrowed into fine points, she searched Harry's face with flaring nostrils, "One small glass."

The boy immediately scrambled to the cabinets, hesitantly grasping a medium size cup.

"Smaller."

He let an inaudible sigh and put a small cup under the faucet, downing it abruptly and looking back at his aunt with a silent question. He was so very thirsty.

"I _suppose_ so."

She was especially generous this afternoon and the rest of the evening, it seemed; she had even let him adjourn to his room. He had spent the rest of his day reveling at the sight of the sun sinking below the hills and flipping through old textbooks he had hidden under his bed.

As the early evening had hit, a soft breeze had rolled in through an open crack in the window and grazed his back, making the text blur into a wash of unreadable gray, and he dozed.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHPhp 

Footsteps plodded up the narrow wooden steps.

Meaty arms thumped on his door, "Freak, open _up._"

Raucous laughter and his eyes opened.

"_Shit,_" Harry cursed under his breath, rubbing at his scalp and saying louder, "What is it that you want Dudley?"

"Yeah, come on, open up," another boy said with a hic and, judging by the mouse like quality of his voice, Harry could only conclude it was Piers Polkiss, "Where's the entertainment?"

Deciding it was best to get it over with, the boy pushed himself up from the bed and spun open the handle, "I don't have anything for you."

Dudley shoved the door open farther, making Harry stumble back and glare at them, "What is it, don't have any ten-year-old's to shove around?"

His jaw twitched, "No, but we have you, freak."

"Don't take after your father, Dudley, it's unbecoming," he spat.

The other boys blinked, looking confused, "At least I have a dad."

Harry's blood stirred, "What did you say to me?"

"I said, at least I have a dad," he taunted, grinning, "That wants me, too."

"Mine didn't abandon me."

"Oh really," the boy laughed, spinning around the room, "I don't see him anywhere."

Piers stumbled back and put his hand to his mouth, "Oh, wait, look, he's here! Look!"

"Don't talk about what you don't know which, unsurprisingly, is a lot of things," he growled, "In that case, maybe you shouldn't talk at all."

Dudley shoved him, spitting, "At least I know what it's like to have people care about me."

Harry saw red and, this time, when Dudley grasped onto his arm to shove again, his magic zapped and sent the boy slamming to the other wall. Piers staggered violently, not bothering to give the boy one last look before bolting out of the room and down the stairs.

It was the mousy, high pitched screech which forcibly dragged Harry out of his thoughts and sent him spiraling back to reality.

He stumbled towards Dudley, shocked, and when he saw the swell of red tinting the creme wall from Dudley's head, the only sound in his ears was a high pitched ring.

He sunk to his knees like melting vanilla ice cream, digging his fingers into the other boy's wrist and exhaling in relief at the steady _thump, thump, thump, thump_.

Vernon was going to kill him.

No, worse than kill him, let his existence linger on for days like the string of a harp being pulled until-_pop_- he broke.

Oh, no. No. No, no, no, no, no.

Please, no.

Merlin, no.

Harry staggered to his feet and grasped his wand from a loose floor board, stepping in and out of his open doorway like a water bug trying to break the surface tension. He glanced timidly at the unconscious Dudley before rushing down a narrow hallway and narrow steps. Thump, thump, thump, thump.

He had barely registered the sensation of the warm wand in his hand, or the feel of his feet colliding against wood than linoleum then grass and, at last, sidewalk.

Plod, plod, plod.

He couldn't, he wouldn't be there when Vernon got home.

He had to go somewhere and, with that in mind, the boy sprinted several blocks before slowing to a halt when his need for oxygen overpowered his adrenalin.

Diagon Alley, he'd stayed there in third year, why not now?

It'd be perfect.

_Pop-_

He smiled at the sound of the Knight Bus.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

(a/n)

Short and sort of rushed, I know, but I hope you liked it nonetheless?


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing

Reviews would be oh-so appreciated!

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It was a miracle, that was the only thing he could call it, and for the first time, Harry thought that maybe, just maybe, fate wasn't such a cold-hearted bitch.

When the Knight Bus had pulled in with a pop, not only had the boy just realized that he'd put on the one pair of pants that had spare galleons in the back pocket from that one trip to Hogsmeade back in April, but he noticed that he had the exact fare he needed to board the bus.

And there he was, staring at an all too knobby and seedy looking Stanley Shunpike, with relief blooming on his face like Aunt Petunia's morning glories in Spring. He clenched the two galleons and forty-three knuts, exactly forty-three knuts, not forty-two, or forty-one, reveling at the feel of the cold forgotten metal webbed in lint.

Miracle, a miracle, a small one, yet nonetheless, it had to be a miracle.

The young man spat onto the concrete and leaned slightly out of the way, gesturing vaguely inside before ripping the galleons from his hands, "You're in luck, get on."

That had marked the beginning of his days in Diagon Alley and, clenching onto the bus seat for dear life, he couldn't imagine what would happen if he didn't have the fare.

Timidly denying the offer of hot tea midway through the ride, it was only fifteen minutes or so when the driver had stopped with a jerk and sent him barreling into the seat in front of him. He was left reeling at the gleam of a 'LEAKY CAULDRON' sign right outside the window.

The next hour consisted of having Tom, the landlord, help him through the brick entrance, him traversing to Gringotts' and back, dumping thirteen galleons in his burly hands and finally- _finally_- renting a room to fall into bed.

His last thought before his head hit the dust-caked pillow was that Vernon was probably going to destroy all his things. It left him with a sharp ache in his chest when he remembered the only things that ever meant something to him were in his trunk: the invisibility cloak and his photo album.

The two things left by his parents.

It meant everything to him.

He had to get it back sometime.

Merlin, he hoped the man would wait.

But after what happened to Dudley...

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

The next morning he was forced out of bed not by his own will but by a screech that very clearly resembled that of Aunt Petunia's.

He opened his eyes, rubbing the last remnants of sleep from his vision, and stared puffy-faced at the white feathers that lingered in the right of his vision. He rubbed again, blinking, and then heard a soft hoot.

The sheets pooled around his legs as he jolted upwards, "Hedwig!" he smiled, wondering how she had found him, "Smart girl."

Her talons dug onto the bed post and the remarkable bird rubbed her beak onto Harry's hand, cooing at the compliment.

After that, he had managed to drag himself out of bed despite the lurking tiredness making his head fuzzy and jumped into a cold shower, only dressing and heading downstairs when he felt suitably awake.

The wooden floors were wide and worn down and it seemed the durability of them was quickly disappearing despite the use of magic to keep them from caving it but, nevertheless, it had a homey feel that reminded him distinctly of the Burrow. Along with that, the varnish was scuffed and rubbed off in some places, leaving not only the stairs but the walls having areas of faded brown patches that looked and felt like the lining of an old tweed jacket. All of this left him taking very slow, deliberate steps with his arms grasping onto the railings.

A maid brushed past him with a stack of towels, not at all deterred by the run down state of the Inn, "No need to look so nervous, dear!"

He flicked his hair over his scar and rearranged his glasses, realizing someone might recognize him, and padded downstairs to get breakfast. Immediately after he sat down, his face was met with a menu and only a few moments after that a plate and silverware appeared with a pop, clunking onto the table, and joined with pumpkin juice, salted avocado, steaming sausage and scrambled eggs.

It was the best meal he'd had in a long while and, in fact, the quality of it reflected the contentedness he felt over the next few days.

Each morning after that he'd wake to the sound of the singular maid padding across the floor and knocking softly on the door, then greeted with a superb breakfast, after which he'd go out to Diagon Alley and meander through the shops. He'd managed to buy all of his required books and new, quality robes and clothing, often splurging on one thing or another which he ultimately forget when stuffed under the bed in his rented room.

Then he'd mill around for a while, flipping through strange texts that were stuffed near the back of Flourish and Blotts' and coated in dust, since it was the only thing to do until lunch or dinner.

This was how he had managed for days, reading and eating, until a hunger for adventure had infected him once again one late afternoon, the same hunger that had made him jump onto a broom for Neville's Remembrall in first year, the same hunger that forced him through forbidden corridors and hidden passages and otherwise dangerous places.

He didn't know what it had caused it so suddenly, making his eyes to stop mid-sentence and even forget to dog ear the page before flopping it onto the bedside table. Maybe it was the gradual setting of the sun, or the vaporous chill that hovered in the air, or even the faded word _catalyst_ in the middle of the page, but as abruptly as the feeling had come on his coat was on and he was out the door.

It was only when he was tapping the bricks with his wand that Tom's voice hovered in his ears and made him stop, "Going somewhere, Longbottom?"

Harry leaned back, blinking, and remembered that was the alias he had chosen for himself.

Maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to be going out this late...

But that had never stopped him before.

"I'll be back soon," he said.

Tom leaned over from the counter, "Alright," his face shriveled in thought, "Just be careful."

He nodded and, right then, he was in Diagon Alley, watching the groups of people huddle and diminish the longer he walked and the closer he got to the shadier edges.

Before he knew it, the sun was sunken below the dinky shops and then pocketed between the rolling hills in the distance.

The chill grew, the buildings getting progressively darker and more cobbled the farther he went.

And the dark was not just in mere color, but like a wafting, mute specter that prodded him by the elbows and dug itself into his tonsils. It pervaded him, teasing, chilly, and made his arms pulse.

It was only when he passed Borgin and Burkes that he paused, realizing how far he had went.

The sun was now only a sliver, like a fingernail receding into the distance.

He should get out of here. He really shouldn't be here. And it was with that realization that the hunger for adventure had dimmed considerably, making his muscles tense and causing him to turn the other direction.

He really should get back to the Leaky Cauldron.

Harry shielded his face and pointed it down to the cobblestones, his shoulders tucking inwards at the odd clinks and cackles that filled the air.

A gaunt old woman grasped him by the arm, pulling him back, "You want to buy a pretty locket now, boy?"

She pulled it up by the chain, swinging it back and forth like a pendulum, causing the silver and green to bounce off the remaining light.

"No thanks," he tittered, trying to pull away.

"But your eyes, your eyes go so well with this, so very well," she laughed, digging sharp nails into his arm.

He shoved at the woman and shuffled backward in the other direction, "I said no thanks."

Harry stumbled back and then forward when a door right behind him creaked open, sending three staggering men out into the street.

"You givin' 'im any tro-uble, n-now, Gretchen?"

The boy could taste the alcohol sullying his words and he reeled as one of them, indistinguishable from the last, grasped onto his shoulder and rubbed at the back of his neck.

"You 'ave pretty eyes, I'll give ya a knut if ya kiss me on the cheek," he pointed at his stubble caked in dry vomit.

Harry pulled away but his cohort gripped at his other shoulder, "I'll give ya one more nut than that," he chuckled, grinning sickly at the innuendo.

The boy stumbled forward, feeling his wrist being tugged at with greasy fingers, and he watched in barely concealed horror as the last sliver of light fully disappeared and cloaked Knockturn Alley in a sheath of dark.

"C'mon, now, no need to be so mean," the third one laughed, "Then again, I like 'em w-when they struggle."

Harry let out a rasp, struggling for his wand until it was pulled out of his pocket and rolled down the street by one of the men.

He wrenched himself forward only to be shoved back by one of them into the other two's arms, "The on'ly wand you'll need is mine."

And it was right at that moment, squeezing his eyes shut when one of them clawed at his collar, that he heard a voice as gentle as honey-soaked air yet as threatening as an animal ready to pounce waft into his right ear, "Step away from him."

As the arms pulled away the boy opened his eyes and gazed up at the man; he was imposing, a little more than six feet tall, towering above the drunken, squat figures with dark, curly hair poking out from under a hood.

Even from under the clock, Harry could tell the man had a sinewy yet lithe body like a thick piece of grass arching its back in the breeze.

"We was jus', jus' wanting some fun," the third one justified, stepping back with his hands up.

The tall man glowered at them, slowly guiding his own hand to the small of the boy's back, "Make sure that it does not occur again."

Far from wanting to rush away, the boy tried to dig his back even closer to the warmth that coursed from the man's hand through his body.

He lead Harry away from the men, blinking from under his hood with a slow, concealed grin, "It is a tragedy that one such as yourself has to suffer such indecencies."

"Thank you so much," the boy gasped, swallowing, "I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't shown up."

The man seemed to ignore him for a long while until he spoke again, eyes just as soft and golden as his voice when they rested on his face, "What is it that you are doing out here at this time of night?"

He swallowed the thick saliva in his mouth and stared pointedly at the ground, "I didn't realize how late it was getting and where I was heading."

The man tapped at his chin, sending the boy to look up at him again, and he was instantly enthralled by the supple, pale face framed by curls. So engrossed in the long neck that widened out into a strong chin, shallow cheeks, and pale lips, it was several moments until Harry turned away and glanced timidly at the alleyway he was approaching.

"I'm sorry, I have to be going," he tried to slide away from the warm palm on his back, coughing, "but thank you once again."

As suddenly as he had said that, he was tugged into the narrow alleyway, "I'm afraid you're not going _anywhere_."

"What?"

It felt like the ground was rustling underneath his feet.

"You have such a rich scent, I've been smelling you for days and it's been driving me _insane_," his pushed Harry against the wall, "It's a shame I have to ruin such a pretty neck..."

"What are you talking about?" the boy griped, "This isn't funny."

The man put his thumb up against Harry's jugular, watching the vein puff up with a swell of blood just underneath his skin and rise up to his face with red, "But I am very hungry."

Those golden brown eyes that looked like crisped mangoes glinting in the sun turned a ruddy brown, and it was the last thing the boy saw besides the gleam of sharp teeth that instantly accompanied a sharp pain in his neck.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I'm not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

It had been three days, three intoxicating, miserable days. Three days with the scent dancing in his nose and teeth and taste buds, three days of it tickling the back of his throat, permeated in the air like a bottle of fine wine being opened. Three days of feeling like there was a hot branding iron scalding his esophagus, and three nights of stalking the alley with nothing, _nada_, _ne rein_, no owner of that scent.

That, that, smell which had managed to be all at once titillating and torturous, teasing and pervading him endlessly.

If anything, it enraged him, made him tremble in pleasure and gutless fury that, for the first time in a long while, he was confronted with something that he wanted.

And, oh, he _wanted_ that scent. He wanted the owner of the scent, to mark him and bite him and to drink all of his succulent juices until nothing was left and his bones were mere dust, to tear through flesh and marrow and have the scent be apart of himself.

He wanted it.

No, needed it. Needed it like he had needed nothing before. He needed this succubus that made the nerves in his gums prickle. And it had all begun on that one fateful evening he had stalked Diagon Alley, scented the human, and left unable to find him, only to come back the next morning with nothing to show for it.

He had left the palace, of all things, and this was the first time that he had not entrusted his servants with the task of catching him food.

The situation was, after all, much too delicate, and the prey much too enticing, for him to give up the hunt.

Each morning for three days he would return, empty-handed, and crumble like a shriveled coat into his chambers, unable and unwilling to go to sleep when that scent tickled him. That damnable, wretched, and succulent scent. Each night he'd stalk the alleys and and streets, not finding him, because that damned human was _everywhere _in the air and in his nose and yet nowhere to be found._  
_

That is until the fourth night, the fourth night he'd dedicate to finding his prey, the fourth night he left the palace, and the forth night he'd be searching. It was both a fourth night and a first night, the first night he had felt the anticipation of the hunt reach a crescendo in a very, very long time, and the first night that he'd find that human.

And the moment he made it to Diagon Alley, evading royal guards and inattentive servants, the vampire could feel something special and luminous and exciting in the air that night. He had let the pounding in his teeth guide him and, on this night that was both a fourth and first, he had found him.

He was a boy wandering to places he had no business being. Pale with a dark mop of hair, eyes like sprouting foliage, and a figure that made him want to do more than just find a quick meal.

He was, by no means, _gorgeous_, but there was something about him that had resonated with the man. A gracefulness that existed despite his awkward shuffle and hunched shoulders, a smooth quality that rivaled his own. It was a boy who had seen many things, perhaps too much, yet moved in spite of it.

And, oh, that smell. The scent that trailed in the air like a garland expanding everywhere, like the richness of simple _pinot noir_ to a drunk beggar; it was almost too much to not rush out and drink the fine wine right then and there.

So he had just watched, all at once both able and unable to do anything at all but see and memorize the texture of his skin and hair and neck. That long, languorous neck.

He stalked after the unnamed boy, ducking, weaving through shops and counting the hairs on his head with each step he grew closer.

It was mere minutes after that in which the boy was accosted by three urchins, fondled and teased and writhing under their _disgusting _touch. Blood stirred in the vampire's gut, teeth aching to claim back what was rightfully his.

That boy was his.

His to be eaten, fondled, touched, and claimed. His for an eternity.

So, he had taken his meal back, in a position to kill the three men yet not doing so because he wanted more than the boy's body, he wanted his trust. If even only for a moment. How odd.

A few quick words and the vampire placed his hand on his back, leading him, and almost trembled at the sensation of warmth coursing through his palm. Warmth from the boy, the warmth of too much hot blood tackling against veins and arteries.

He had loved the thrill of the chase, one he hadn't felt in a long time and, unknowingly, wanting to see the green depths of the boy's eyes, he had used his allure. He wanted, needed, to be noticed by his meal- to captivate.

Those eyes trailed over him, green glances spreading like the growth of a meadow over his neck, chin, nose and lips. And then- they looked away. They had the gal to look away, to resist him, when he had the right to own those eyes.

"I'm sorry, I have to be going," the boy said, "but thank you once again."

Rage, that struck him blindly, suddenly, and murderously, roared in his gut, making his teeth ache.

How dare he, how dare a mere human look away from him, the Vampire Lord. Resist his allure like it was a pesky fly.

And so he had taken his meal, shoved him into an alley, and finally, on the fourth night, ate.

It was on this very night, the fourth night, and a first of sorts, that one very unexpected thing had happened. One thing which had not occurred within the vampiric society for hundreds of years.

The boy did not die.

Unknowing of this, the Lord stalked away, leaving his supposedly dead prey in the alleyway.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

(a/n)

ahem, *cough* review please *cough*

Thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited, read, enjoyed, etc!


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: maybe swearing

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

His eyelids pulsed, corneas gleaming like white crescent moons and thick eyelashes barring his vision, before closing again.

_Merlin_. That was the first thought he had when he woke up, roundly followed by, _what the hell did I do last night?_

His whole body ached fiercely, tendons and ligaments slow-roasting over a fire while his nerves coiled like snakes winding their way over taut muscles.

It didn't help much that his bed was so stiff and oddly gritty. Like his skin was sandwiched against sandpaper.

Cold, very cold and windy. Maybe he left open a window, or a maid did to cool it off last afternoon. But he didn't remember doing that, or seeing his window open.

In fact, there was a whole lot he couldn't remember. Like what he did last night or, for that matter, what he did yesterday at all; he couldn't even remember leaving the Leaky Cauldron. Or getting back.

No. He didn't remember returning, or waving to Tom like he always did when he stepped in through the brick entrance, or hearing the gruff "Nice to see you back", or stepping into the shower and falling into bed.

His hand brushed gingerly over the surface he laid on, recoiling softly at the harshness of it, and Harry's mind sped.

Maybe he rolled off of the bed last night. He would move to look but, Merlin, he was tired.

He probably didn't get a good sleep, what with him being on the floor and all, and that would explain why he ached too.

Something squeaked in his ear and, thinking it was the door, Harry bobbed his head to the left, hissing sharply at the sensation in his neck. He brought his arm up to it regardless of the tension lacing his bones and gingerly probed the skin.

There was a dry, crumbly, crumbly _something _gauzed over his neck that felt like old paper but less thick. As he felt more, half blinded by the heaviness in his eyelids, he felt two distinct pricks parallel to each other.

His hands felt more harshly, trembling and frantic, trailing over the scabbed edges.

And his eyes faught against his eyelids, perching them up back into the sockets, both desperate and unwilling to see.

His vision grew slowly less blurred, making out the straight edges of concrete and the grayness of bricks... bricks covered in, in, in a something, something that he couldn't quite make out until...

Until one dot, one little dot on the white mortar between two bricks blearing bright in the middle of his eyes, gleamed like a neon sign.

Red, not red, but a distinct brown-red, like blood exposed to oxygen.

Blood.

As that word pulsed very vividly in his brain, Harry's eyes nimbly trailed off the dot, watching at the dots grew in size, until they sliced over the bricks like fat long loogies, and then... and then... everything, the bricks, the muddy ground, his neck and hands and face and clothes were slathered in the stuff. Slathered in the cold, dried red that pulsed like a hot, wet thing in his head.

He couldn't help it, he whimpered and his body jolted up, shuffling back to the opposite wall as best it could, and he stared at the blood caked like old icing on a pastry.

And then as fast as the blood had once been rushing out of two pricks on his neck, disjointed little memories flooded into his consciousness.

The word _catalyst_ on a dried old page, and then he left- left the Leaky Cauldron, and, Tom?

Had Tom been... yes, yes he had. And then walking, night, men, three of them?

What had they done?

Asked him for directions maybe, or- doesn't matter. And then, another man.

Yes, another man. Pulled him away, and he thanked him-what for, though?- and the man's eyes were as luminous and golden as wheat fields in Tuscany. And then, they weren't; those eyes were brown. Brown like dried blood.

Then there was an alley-where he was now-why was he here?- and then that man, with his brown-red-golden eyes, and pain. Pain like screws drivers dropping from thirty feet up and driving two cold spikes into his neck. And throat. His blood fountaining outwards.

...Nothing.

Harry felt for the two parallel holes in his neck, gasping at the sensation of throbbing underneath his fingers.

Did that man _bite him_?

He gasped, twisting in revulsion, and he felt his stomach turn.

He needed to get out of here.

Right now.

The sight of blood mixed with dirt and stone and empty firewhiskey glasses shattered on the ground was too much.

Much too much.

Staggering to his feet, he realized that blood was all over him too; on his clothes and skin even dried on the tips of his eyelashes. People couldn't see him this way.

He scrambled for his wand, feeling the wood in his back pocket with a relieved sigh, and incanted _scourgify_ so much so that his skin started to chaff as if covered in a find layer of dry hand soap.

With that he had stumbled out of the alleyway and into the streets, tipping drunkenly back into the small crevice between two buildings at the blinding sunlight.

Rubbing at his eyes, he stepped back in the street and averted them into the ground, wondering blankly at why the sun felt so peculiarly hot today. Like it burned his corneas.

His long, hot, and tired trek back to the Leaky Cauldron was was just that- long, hot and tired. As well as comfortably blank as the pain in his muscles and neck outweighed his ability to think about what had happened.

It had allowed him to avoid questions such as, _why had that man bitten me?_

And especially: W_hat does it mean?_

By the time he had reached the brick wall, vision fuzzy and his head unpleasantly achy, he felt ready to collapse on his rented bed and curl up for days.

If he was lucky, then no one would know he had been gone at all.

This, unfortunately, was not the case, seeing as how the moment he stepped into the dinky, moth-eaten place, every eye had immediately zipped to him.

Tom looked up from the dusty countertop, blinking and immediately stopping the harsh scrub and then, moments later, he clapped a big, burly hand onto his shoulder, "_Where have you been, lad?_"

Harry opened and closed his mouth, eyes wavering over the man's shoulder and looking at the messy sign plastered to the wall that read:

_Missing:_

_Neville Longbottom_

_A student at Hogwarts, fairly short with dark hair, may be wearing glasses and solid-colored clothing. Pale. _

"How long have I been gone?" the boy was startled at how thick and raspy his voice was.

"Three days," the man said, "At first I'd thought you'd left so you didn't have to pay for the extra days in the room, but you left your stuff here and didn't come back. Thought you coulda been dead."

The boy reeled, "Three days?"

"Merlin, you're pale, where've you been? We should get you to Mongo's..."

"No, no, I'm fine! I was spending time with," his tongue hung on the edge of his gums, "my uncle, down at Fortescue's; he came into town and, you know, I didn't realize how much time had gone by."

"You shouldn't have left so suddenly, shoulda told me where you were going! You almost just gave me a heartattack, walking in like the dead."

Harry smiled sheepishly, face faltering, and Tom ripped the _Missing_ sign off the wall while walking back to the counter.

"And you're sure you're okay?"

"Yes, sir," the boy nodded, and staggered up the stairs before Tom called him back.

"Oh, some people were looking for you while you were gone," he said, "Some professor at Hogwarts, I think, didn't mention your name though."

Harry nodded, continuing up the steps with a grimace, and fell into bed the first chance he got.

He could think later.


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this!

Warnings: swearing, 'ideologically sensitive material'

(A/N) Sorry this took so long... I didn't mean to put it off, but between AP tests and school work, I just got a little lazy.

I absolutely can't believe how many of you have followed and favorited! I'm so flattered since this is the first time I've really written.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

It was a shame. An absolute shame. When Harry had awoken, he didn't even have the comfort of getting those blissful, short seconds where it would appear everything was normal and that nothing had happened to him.

He would've loved to wake up thinking about the inevitable discouraging glances one of the maids-Cassa-would give him if he decided to indulge in treacle tarts for his regular breakfast.

Or about how the Inn could really increase their profitability if they took some time to refurnish the place.

Perhaps even awake thinking on how he could finish that summer essay he was still stuck on, about the fluidity of state changes from a liquid to a solid for transfiguration.

Thoughts about food and economy and- _trans... transublimination.. transsubstatantionalism_- or whatever in Merlin's name it was- would've been a luxury.

Instead he woke up from his already fitful sleep with the head-smashing thought of:_ I've been bitten in an alleyway._

It was proudly accompanied by the unwelcome, yet nonetheless eager, memory of last night. Or more specifically, four nights ago, or however long he had been comatose.

Maybe he would've awoken peacefully, with a fleeting relief that it had only been a dream, if he hadn't felt the dull pulse of his pricks just underneath the surface of his throat. It was an achy heat that radiated out from the bite and drummed over only the right side of his neck.

_I've been bitten._

_Oh, Merlin. _

_Who would do that?_

Harry slid out of bed, padding soundlessly into the bathroom while poking the surface of his skin slightly above his shoulder blade.

_This isn't going to look pretty_, was the last thought he had before his eyes beamed at the crooked mirror dangling a few inches above the sink. And it was with that he found himself tumult violently backwards, bashing his right shoulder into the shower directly behind and hearing it vibrate underneath him with a _smack._

He barreled forward, hissing at the stinging response that zapped from his shoulder to pricks in his neck, and was re-met with his reflection in the mirror when his arms dug back into the side of the sink and his head stopped four inches from the glass.

He was perched frozen, eyes unwillingly trailing over the tinged pink of his throat that was gradually appearing more swollen, until the two narrow, precipice like holes cut into his vision.

His hand wavered back and forth, wondering if it was a good idea to feel the holes as he bared more of his burning neck to the mirror.

It was odd, seeing one side of his neck to be a washed red, but the rest of his neck and skin to be so taut over his bones that it was stretched white.

It could get infected. It could _be_ infected already.

It was another persons' saliva that his blood was now bathed in.

But what _person_ would do this?

What _human_ would do this?

The word human lit like a candle in his brain, the wax of it seeping to the base of his skull and weeping down the back of his throat. It calcified in the bottom of his stomach.

More than just would've, what type of human possibly _could've_ done this? The two pricks dug very deeply down into his throat, as if someone had decided to puncture the skin with long screws and remove them.

No ones' teeth were that long. And it wasn't like an animal bit him- Harry very clearly remembered the warm hands grazing lightly at the small of his back that night. The brief twitch of pale lips into something resembling a smile. And the eyes that sent strands of honey wheat tickling his face when they looked at him.

Harry shrugged off the tightness brewing in his lower stomach, turning a lively shade of red and looking at the rustic faucet below the mirror.

Admittedly, he was attractive, but of course the boy only felt an, uh, appreciation of the elder man's looks. It was just as if he was looking at a beautiful vase; the vase was pretty but there was no way he could feel any sexual attraction to it.

He liked girls, like Cho, or whatever. He didn't like men.

Besides, that man had bitten him, how could he feel anything at all for a man...

_If he could even be called a man at all,_ Harry thought, his stomach violently revolting at that thought the moment it sunk in.

He gagged into the sink and covered his mouth, thinking maybe he was going to vomit but ending up only dry heaving.

Not a human at all.

"Then what?" the boy shot back, mumbling to himself.

It was then that his ears perked up at the sound of a hand lightly knocking on his door, "Mr. Longbottom?"

He staggered out of the bathroom, ruthlessly tucking away the thought of what was _human- and- not human_ when his head peeked up from the bathroom doorway.

"Yes?" he called.

There was a pregnant pause on the other side of the door before the maid said, "Breakfast," and walked to the next door of the adjoining room in the hallway.

It was then that he decided to drench himself and his stinging neck into the shower. He spent an excessively long time dunking his ears evenly between the jets and watching as it cascaded down the drain, reveling in the feeling of hearing nothing but the rush of water.

An hour later his hair was semi-organized into a damp, curling mop and the pricks in his neck concealed by a light bandage and high-collared robes.

Overall, he looked a little peaky but more presentable than when he walked in last afternoon- _like the dead_, in Tom's words.

As if nothing had ever happened at all, he ducked out of the rented room, glided through the halls and down a large staircase, and perched himself down in his usual spot.

The next moment, as always, a menu popped in the air right before him with faded letters and scuffed edges. He had long since gotten used to it enough that he didn't address the booklet as _sir,_ or _ma'am,_ or say _please (which had always made the other maids laugh) _when ordering his food_. _

It was directly after he had ordered buttered toast with a side of avocado and the menu popped away that he felt a swap at the back of his head.

He ducked, craning his head to meet angry, red-rimmed eyes.

"Do you have _any_ idea," the maid glowered at him, "How worried I was?"

Harry blinked, reeling, "I'm sorry."

"If you were-" she started, breathing starting to waver, "If you were, then you would've thought maybe, just _maybe_, it was a stupid idea to leave for days without saying a single word!"

The women, Cassa, tugged at the heavy stack of towel in her hands, "Think for once."

A moment later his food appeared and clanked down onto the table and that was when she swiftly spun the other direction.

The boy blinked once again, he had barely even known her. He'd only been here for- what?- a little more than a week.

Still, he couldn't help but feel sediments of guilt whirl in his throat which, combined with debate in his head about the bite, effectively made him stop eating at the first bite.

After he had clunked the toast back to the chipped plate, he stepped up and determinedly moved towards to the brick entrance to_ Diagon Alley_.

He didn't have time to keep himself occupied with, well, thoughts of the maids and what he did wrong.

He needed to find out who-or what, more exactly- had bitten him.

It was then that Tom waved him over the counter after glancing surreptitiously to the left and right, "Longbottom, come here."

He ducked his head over to the man, watching him continue to circulate between a series of activities like scrubbing at cups or at the counter or waving to certain visitors on the other side of the room.

"Now, you aren't going away now, are ya?" he muttered, looking uncharacteristically agitated when his already thick jaw tightened.

Harry rubbed guiltily at the back of his neck, coughing, "I'll be back in a few hours."

The wrinkled man sighed, sending his nails raking through his close-cropped hair, and peered over Harry's shoulder at a distant point on the opposite wall, "I'm sorry about Cassa."

"It's fine, sir," the boy said.

"No, ya see, she had just lost her boy- her son- and husband, I don't know if ya knew him- Blacke Crawford- he was a pretty famous auror, and you know how dangerous it is being in that profession and," the man paused heartily, looking as if he was trying to articulate the indescribable, "Anyways, after that she didn't have anywhere to go."

Harry nodded.

His hand dug so strongly with the rag into the surface of the he was cleaning the boy thought it could shatter at any moment, "You're the nicest visitor she's had in a while, and after losing her family like that-" he swallowed, "She needed someone to care for."

The boy felt his head lower despite the response of his neck, and examined the worn ground under his equally worn shoes.

"I think you remind her of him- her son, that is," he murmured, "You look a lot like 'im, from what I've heard from the other maids."

There was an ensuing silence between them, his throat and the innkeeper's battling against an odd tightness.

"You take care of yer'self, Neville, and if someone's hurting you-" the man stopped, shaking his head as if he had just said something stupid, "Well, just keep yourself safe, if not for yourself then for her sake, at least."

The pounding in Harry's heart matched the pounding in his neck and he gulped uncomfortably, finding himself unable to say that no one had hurt him, "I'll do that, thanks, sir."

The elder man nodded at him and gestured towards the brick entrance, allowing him to go.

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(A/N) thanks for reading this!

I wouldn't mind a review or two, just to keep me alive for the winter.

How did you feel about this chapter? I thought maybe it was a little jumpy or choppy, since I'm not very skilled at scene transitions, but overall pretty okay.


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing and such

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The moment he had entered the dinky little book store, Flourish and Blotts, he seriously considered just going back to the Inn to crawl up in his rented bed.

He didn't feel up to the challenge of wading through pages and pages of books to find what he was looking for, not today. Or any day, for that matter.

A ten minute walk would've cleared his head of what Tom told him, he had thought right before leaving through the brick entrance.

Unfortunately, this was not true. A ten minute walk out in the blaring hot sun had only worsened the heaviness in his chest and the constant thrumming of his bite. A ten minute walk now held a new connotation to him, meaning his feet would sink into the cobble stone as weighty as the thoughts in his brain spiraled downward. It also meant the sensation of hot resin pouring into his bite and slickening his gut.

The book store was not much better, either, seeing as how the light would filter in through the expansive and thin glass covering the walls and pelt hot hail at him.

Harry edged closer to the shelves, wiping at his sweaty brow and grimacing.

Why was he even here anyways?

It didn't make much sense to him; the bite most likely meant absolutely nothing. The only thing it said was that he had been attacked by a mad man. They didn't have a book on that sort of thing.

Relieved, he backed away from the shelves, lingering hesitantly at the doorway when he started tapping the doorknob.

_But_...

He tapped, each finger falling successively on the reflective surface and making the old knob twitch.

What if it does mean something?

That's what he was here for, right? To see if the bite had an answer and then fix it, like he always did?

_This isn't a normal bite_, he told himself, swallowing thickly at the admission.

It wasn't. It pounded, day and night, constantly. He didn't know how deep it went past the skin, but he could tell it was pretty far- can a human do that? A human bite looks like twenty little curved indents, and this was only two very deep ones.

It's not normal.

Harry felt his gut revolt at the word, a little Vernon sitting on his shoulder and shouting it into his ear.

He tapped again at the knob, nibbling on the gums of his lower lip.

"Is there something you're looking for, sir?"

Harry superstitiously brushed his hair over his scar, spinning around and giving a faltering smile at the cashier who blinked back him behind a pair of large round glasses.

She looked almost like a Trelawney, yet far lass bug-like than he was expecting by the sound of her voice.

_Decide, quickly. Run from it or confront it. Are you a Gryffindor or not? _

"I'm looking for a book about," he paused, squinting at the window gleaming in sunlight, "About dark creatures, if you have it?"

She tilted the glasses over the bridge of her nose from over the counter, "Any book in particular?"

"No, not really," Harry replied, mouth opening and closing as if to justify himself, "I'm new to the subject and don't really know what to look for; summer essays can be a real pain, you know?"

The woman let her shoulders loose as if they'd been hung up by ropes, laughing nervously, "Oh, thought we had a dark wizard on our hands there for a moment."

She spent the next thirty minutes introducing him to the laughably small selection of books that existed in the very back, darkest corner of Flourish and Blotts. Compared to the other shelves, with perfectly lined, dusted and polished looking books, the section was full of worn binding and covers gritty with webs. It was later when he opened the books that the missing and yellowed pages became readily apparent. Hermione would've had an epileptic fit.

"You're sure this is all of them?" Harry asked, flopping a barely legible _Creatures of Dark Magic _into his own hands that sent little plumes of dust and mites into the air and him into a small coughing fit.

She scratched at the back of her neck, fiddling with her glasses, "This sort of thing doesn't attract customers," she reddened at Harry's look, "Not that- not that, that's what I'm only here for! I work here because I love books, learning, yes, but..."

He gestured haltingly at her, "It's alright, I just don't think I'll find what I'm looking for with only these."

Her voice went down to a conspiratorial whisper, "I shouldn't be telling you this, seeing as how you're only a boy, but, well, if you really need to find books for your essay," she stopped for a moment, "Knockturn Alley has a lot more than this about creatures- but don't go down there without an adult, you hear? It can get dangerous, especially at night."

"_Trust me, I know_," he grumbled under his breath, panicking for a moment until he looked at her expression and realized she hadn't heard.

"Is that all you need?"

He nodded, "Yes, thank you."

She scurried back to the other side of the bookstore when the bell rang back on the counter, and Harry was finally left alone.

He realized he felt a lot less sick now, especially when the sun couldn't reach over the particularly tall shelf that, instead, sent the light trailing over the wall rather than the corner he slunk into.

He sat on the floor with crossed legs and perched the book he was holding on his knees, reading over the chapters entitled Ogres, Black Ghosts, Dementors, and, before he knew it, he had spent a solid hour reading, his position gradually turning more lazy and wilting as he leaned his back against the shelves and rested his head on his hand.

He skimmed over chapters, blindly and unseeingly gazing over dull sections and flipping constantly back to the Table of Contents. That is, until he saw it. His eyes glazing over the words _Chapter 8 _followed by a colon and then, about two inches down from that, was the simple word: _Vampire_. _  
_

The holes in his neck let out a hot, particularly painful pulse the moment his eyes were about to skate right over the word and suddenly it had popped out to him.

He felt for the holes, index finger softly trailing over the scabbed edges of the bite before he took a nauseating breath of stale air.

_You've already been over this_, his head told him, _there's no way you could be bitten by a... a... that's crazy._

And yet he had already known that the word meant something, something perhaps crazy, yet something that was perhaps equally as true. He fingered the crisp edge of the page, swallowing at the tightness in his throat, and started reading.

_Vampires are one of the few known Dark Creatures that have not yet been eradicated by the Ministry of Magic. Unlike the other creatures featured in this book, such as Dementors, who are only around to this day because of their service to Azkaban (refer to page 125); Vampires still circulate throughout Magical Britain and collective niches of Egypt because of, first and foremost, their noted intelligence, secondly, their physical power, and lastly, because of their forceful alluring and attractive powers (as theorized by Gradwin the Great, refer to page 345)._

The man that Harry had met a few nights ago lingered in the forefront of his head, just as vivid and warm as he had been that night, and the boy scrambled to flip another few pages until his eyes landed on another valuable block of text.

_Section Three: Use of Charms _

_I. The Problem of Evidence_

_Another speculative difference between Vampires and other Dark creatures includes their ability to use a an entirely wandless, dark magic power dubbed, by some experts, as The Allure. There is much argument within the field of Vampiric Studies if such a power exists, the issue both a polarizing and lively debate that Professor Gradwin the Great, House of Leold founder, calls: "One of the most supremely astounding and well-evidenced collective feature of the Vampiric Society which any great thinker would consider true," (Gradwin, 34)._

_Other thinkers of the era are skeptical of the evidence of The Allure, remarking that "only witness testimony has provided the shocking lack of proof to promote such an outrageous claim," (Delicorian, 27). No magical traces or remnants of the entirely kinetic, so-called wandless magic have remained in any Vampiric encounter within the casualties. _

_II. Witness Testimony_

_The few and far in between witnesses who have ever managed to miraculously escape a Vampire encounter without getting bitten unanimously agree that they have felt the effects of The Allure (refer to the Alberta-Duhrer case on page 367)._

_Symptoms that witnesses recall include:_

_-unshakable sensations of lust for the Vampire attacker_

_-pulsing heat coursing throughout the body from when the attacker has skin contact_

_-unable to look away from the eyes and/or face of the Vampire attacker_

Harry felt an even more pronounced sensation of nausea well up in his gut. This wasn't true. This couldn't be true. He skipped a few more pages, eyes landing randomly on a particularly crinkled one.

_Section 5: Consequence of a Vampire encounter_

_I. First Scenario: Escape and Means of It_

Harry skimmed even more.

_II. Second scenario: Bite Victim_

_In a Vampire's teeth exists a lethal poison comparable to that of a Rinogerous Snake in its prime, sixteen times over, and the chemical composition infinitely more deadly. Where there have been survivors of a Rinogerous bit, t__here has never been a recorded human in history who has ever, in any time, any place, culture, or any condition, that has survived a Vampire bite._

Harry's jolted when his knee bashed into the shelf he was resting his back against, eyes wide the more he read.

_As seen in test rabbits, as the concentrated poison sets into the bloodstream, it only takes a matter of thirty seconds or less for the victim to completely die. There is no surviving a Vampire bite, which make them, not extinct and currently thriving as of yet, one of the most, if not the most "dangerous dark magic creature to ever exist within the Magical and non-magical realm", (Cornaro, 345)._

_The only case of a surviving victim is within Vampiric mythology, (refer to page 373). _

Harry quickly and blindly flipped to that page, eyes resting dead set on the half-ripped page, and he started reading what he could.

_Section 10: Mythology- Subsection of Culture_

_I. Vampiric Belief Systems_

_One of the most prominent belief systems of the Vampiric society, widespread and accepted as truth by many in those observed by the Ministry of Magic and Foundation for Creatures Assoc., is the belief in a so-called Kindling. _

_The translated mythological belief goes as such:_

_When the turning of the age occurs, _

_when the foes threaten to destroy Us,_

_One- A Kindling to the Fire- shall rise up,_

_Once human, then Turned_

_The prediction of a "future time yet unseen" goes on to describe-_

The holes in his neck pulsed, hot and red and unfathomably painful as the sensation wracked through his body. The page was torn in half right then and no more could be read. Frantic, the boy flipped and looked for the missing half, scouring the shelf with his eyes before dizzily rising to his feet.

_Stop, this is stupid. Utterly idiotic. No one has ever survived a Vampire bite, it's not possible. _

The boy calmed just slightly.

_That's just a stupid book, it means nothing. Nothing._

And yet he still found his hands looking for the missing half, and his heart, as well as the pounding in his neck dismissing what was clearly... what obviously had to be reason.

Fifteen minutes later, holding back the questions bursting from out of his head, he stumbled out of Flourish and Blotts, raised his collar just slightly over the bites and nimbly dragged himself back to the Inn.

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WHEW... 6th chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: I am not JK ROWLINGGGGGG, and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing, SEXUAL THEMES (you've been warned...)

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

He stumbled blindly back to the Inn much the same as how he'd gotten to the book store, passing sardine-packed shoppes and cobbled streets, and feeling the full force of the sun.

Yet this time something felt much different than before.

Maybe it was the sun's more acute position in the sky. Or maybe it was a hazy sort of a quality in the air. Maybe it was the puce-tinted clouds that hung like dumbbells strung up to a ceiling. Or maybe it was him, and what he knew, and most of all- _most of all_- the crisped and fuzzy edges and slightly faded letters he'd imagine to be on the missing half of page number 373.

He hated how the text had stopped abruptly, just like that- _The prediction of a "future time yet unseen" goes on to describe-_

Goes on to describe _what_? _What_ exactly?

He found his fingers itching to sprint back and tear that library up binding by binding until he found it. And yet, on the other hand, he felt his stomach curl at such a thought, curl at the thought of finding the page and finishing it because, deep down, _very, very_ deep down, he knew it just had to be something about him.

The parallel holes in his neck pulsed with a renewed energy, as if to say: '_yes, it has everything to do with you'_.

He both wanted to know and didn't want to know, and the conflicting feelings sent his brain into another hurtling head ache and his stomach even more slick with nausea.

It was a relief when he finally reached the stout brick wall, deciding that cuddling up in a bed for another twelve hours didn't seem like such a bad thing. However, the second he stepped into the Leaky Cauldron he was greeted with a shocking sight.

All had seemed normal at first glance- the air was just as musky and stale as before, the tables were the same gritty, perpetually uncleaned texture, and the walls were covered in trailing webs. The sense of normalcy continued until his eyes had following the dots of sporadic spiders and crumbling wall panels, and a familiar sound made him stop.

It was the sound of a voice, a voice strict and disciplinarian enough that the moment he had heard it, his back straightened and his eyes shot downwards to the floor out of habit. He knew that voice too well and when he shook himself out of his confusion, the boy whirled his head around.

His eyes pounced to the man who hadn't yet noticed him. He recoiled immediately at the sight of black robes and greasy hair.

Snape.

And at the sight of the man, he had abruptly backed into the corner between the brick entrance and the Inn. He stood there for several moments, only edging his head closer to hear what the man was saying when he was sure that he hadn't seen him.

The professor was speaking with a tired looking Cassa, mumbling in such an unusual waspish and hushed drawl that the boy could only make out a few words he was saying.

"...Seen him?... Hogwarts... ran away... idiot boy"

Harry hunched down and peeked his head even more over the edge of the walled-off corner to see what was going on.

She was nodding politely, struggling with a large pot of hot soup that smelled so pungent he could tell it was Split-Pea even from this distance. She lifted the heavy thing and rested it along the side of her hip like how one might hold a baby if they were talking on a phone.

Her brow twitched in irritation for only a moment as she gripped with more difficultly the large pot, "A boy, hmm? The one that went missing a while ago?"

"Yes," his expression became, if possible, even more dour.

The maid smiled at him blankly for a moment, continuing her waddle to the counter and setting it down with a relieved sigh. Snape followed the woman whose eyes sweeping back and forth when she was able to turn her back to him.

The boy didn't know if he had just imagined it, but he could've sworn she had given him a slight nod to where he was. At that signal he retreated even more into the corner.

"Can't say I have," she lied, "He used to be here all the time, but I haven't seen him around since he went, you know, _missing_."

The professor didn't say anything, and the boy could only imagine that he had given her one tight nod.

"He was a sweet boy too; would you owl me when you find him, sir?"

In the next minute Harry heard a strangled sigh, muddled footsteps and the whoosh of a floo place.

"You can come out now," Cassa informed, shaking out her arms.

It was a minute until he stood and shuffled out of the corner, whipping his head around to see if the man was somehow still there.

"Thank you," the boy said, stifling the lump in his throat, "thank you."

If she hadn't lied to him, then Harry had no idea what would happen. A harangue, yes, but he'd also likely be shipped back to his relatives. He shivered at the thought.

She smiled politely much like how she had smiled at Snape, "Well, I wouldn't want that man to be looking for me either."

He nodded, still feeling dizzy and weak despite how much his heart was thumping against his rib cage.

She quickly returned to her cool demeanor, "Are you going to tell me or Tom what's going on?"

Harry shook his head, dismissing himself to his rented room and rubbing at the bite that pounded along with his chest.

He crawled in bed despite it only being early afternoon, tired and justifying the laziness with the fact that he'd done too much thinking today.

It was only a little while until he started dreaming.

_More than anything else, Harry loved those gleaming pair of eyes, and whenever they paused to give him a long look, it was as if soft velvet meadows crawled up the small of his back and came to tickle the base of his neck. Those eyes, those eyes were the perfect eyes framed with rows of dark lashes. _

_It was those eyes that had made him forget about the three men and the old woman he had seen earlier, it was those eyes that sent a pleasurable rush of blood to his groin. _

_Harry broke away from those eyes hesitantly, vision trailing down to a thin, pointed nose that further dropped down into pale pink lips. There was a tap at his chin as soon as his eyes slid down the man's strong neck and to his collarbone, and he was forced to look up again at the color of ripe mangoes, "I have something to say to you, my dear."_

_The boy straightened up, bringing his face closer to his right ear holding back several dark, curly locks._

_A soft breath lingered over his throat and made it pulse pleasantly, long fingers feeling the texture of his cheek as if riveted before moseying to his neck. Gently yet firmly, those fingers squeezed at his jugular. Those eyes tickled his neck, pinned to the swell of blood below the skin like rushing white rapids, before the man leaned forward and brought his mouth to Harry's neck._

_The boy giggled as the man's warm, large hands traveled away from his neck and rested at the base of his stomach, gently rolling his abdomen right above his belt buckle. Unwittingly, he bared more of his neck to those soft kisses, feeling the man's leg rub in between his._

_He let out a breathy moan, the man pressing his hardness against-_

Harry awoke with a gasp, twisting himself hard against the sheets and feeling a brief disorientation before remembering he had taken a nap. What added to his confusion was the blanket of darkness that covered the entire room; he had obviously slept past sunset, and with this in mind he started clumsily untangling himself from the sweaty sheets.

It took him a moment to realize how tightly his crotch was pushed against his jeans, and he groaned lightly when he inadvertently rubbed himself against the pillows. Lost in the haze of pleasure, he pushed himself even harder against the sheets and felt oddly turned on by the stickiness in his boxers. It was when he started unzipping his jeans and letting them sink below his hips that he remembered just what had turned him on in the first place.

He flinched, pulling his hand away with a flaming red face as he remembered the strong, lean body pushing against him. His eyes grew half lidded, tongue peeking out of his partially opened mouth when another dose of pleasure funneled straight to his groin.

And then he recoiled once again, zipping up his sweat dripped and sticky jeans despite how uncomfortable they were before heading straight to a cold shower.

He could never like someone who attacked him, never. That'd be like falling in love with Voldemort!

And he liked girls, no matter what the pounding of his bite told him.


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing, sexual themes *ahem*, other stuff

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_The vampire knew full-well the human was not the most attractive young boy, looking oddly lanky and unkempt. He was much too thin and gawky and hadn't yet grown out of the childlike quality to his face and body that receded into the bagginess of his clothes; his forehead was perpetually scrunched in a sort of agitation, and they too receded under choppy bangs. _

_That's also likely why it was the strangest sort of sensation when he laid his eyes on the boy, and felt it. He felt drawn to it. Drawn to the unrivaled silkiness of black hair that dawdled until curtaining down over small ears, drawn then to the greenness of his eyes that led to faintly convex cheeks. Those cheeks then scurried to a supple and faintly feminine curve defining his jaw line, running to an even softer neck. _

_And when his eyes halted at the collar of his robes, the vampire felt the immediate need to take those clothes off and look at what was underneath. _

_The next thing he knew his own hands were sliding over the boy's back and calculating the surface variations, like the long spine dipping in and out of the skin, the curvy, delicate little waist, and suddenly strong hips he longed to dance over with his fingertips. _

_It was perhaps the most rewarding experience he had even known when he felt the boy writhing against his hands, little green eyes encumbered when they found the courage to meet his own, and the vampire could have sworn he had almost felt his own lips twitch._

_And then, right then, those eyes dropped from his own, to his nose, lips, and swept over his collarbone. The vampire stifled the irritated growl rising from the very base of his throat, and tapped the boy's chin firmly upwards, "I have something to say to you, my dear."_

_The boy straightened up immediately and brought himself closer to the vampire, the obedience pleasing the elder man infinitely._

_He faced the boy more frontally, letting a wavering, warm breath coat the boy's throat for a moment, and sliding his hands slowly over his body. He leaned forward, poking at his jugular and watching the blood rise, letting his tongue spill out of his mouth at the pulsing of his member when the boy bared more of his languorous neck._

_His hands trailed more confidently over firmly over the boy's body, slipping from his lower back to the base of his abdomen and rolling the soft tissue under his fingers._

_For a moment, he had thought about biting the offered neck, nearly groaning at the thought of how sweet it would taste, yet decided instead to leaving feathery light kisses at the base and collarbone, noting the beauty marks dotting the surface._

_He felt the boy's hardness pressing against his own when their two bodies grew closer together, making him push forward and place his leg in between the boy's legs, rubbing softly against him and hearing a pleased moan-_

The vampire awoke, eyes instantly adjusting to the darkness as his pupils flared outwards and encompassed his entire iris. The mahogany frame of his bed creaked when he slipped out of it, sliding to the floor on all fours and tensing as if ready to pounce.

It was late night, the taste of it approximately midnight, likely 11:52, and peculiarly chilly for a summer evening- twelve degrees Celsius.

He narrowed his eyes, turning completely still and silhouetted enough that he could have passed as a piece of furniture. That is, if his eyes didn't reflect the available light and gleam an ominous yellow.

He shifted inaudibly, vision sweeping from one object to another, resting intermittently from one wall to another.

Nothing.

Nothing moved besides the constant swinging of the pendulum inside of his grandfather clock on the farthest wall.

He ascended to his feet, realizing that there were no intruders, and even if there was than the Palace Guards would have swiftly killed them the second they tried to set foot into the building.

How curious it was, he would have sworn in Circe's name that he had seen a boy-

He blinked, mind flooding with decaying memories of green eyes, hair, and kissable collarbones. He shuddered at the pulsing just under his abdomen. He remembered that boy, he killed that boy himself. With his own two teeth.

There was no possible way the boy would have been in His room, having intimate _tête-à-tête _with him; he was dead!

A realization thrummed in his head; a dream. It was only a dream. He almost staggered back in surprise.

How many years had it been since he'd had a dream? Fifty, a hundred or so? And he ended dreaming about a _lowly human?_ About_ food_? He had lusty thoughts about a dead, average-looking human?

Yes, average at best. Average looking hair and constantly quirked eyebrows, average looking lips and pointed nose that had a small freckle slightly to the left of its bridge, average looking neck and average looking collarbone that slithered down to an average looking, white expanse of chest-

The Vampire Lord immediately recoiled, shivering when he became cognizant of his own... of his own... _désir; lust!_

How utterly disgusting! It made him want to retch that he was even still thinking about a human for any other use than a quick meal. How could his wretched mind have prioritized a boy so much that he ended up having his first dream in who knows how long?

Why, the last dream he had was prophetic about the revival of a vampire hunting movement by the Tsar in the Russian Empire! And that wasn't _half_ as vivid as this dream!

How curious. It was almost if that human was somehow, someway, _important_. Yet how? And why did the nebulous entity that seemed to forewarn him of certain events feel it was necessary to impart this to him? The human was dead, whatever was going to happen earlier, if it even meant something at all, wasn't going to happen now.

Strange.

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I feel sorta guilty for putting in such a short chapter but, then again, NOT REALLY. ahahahahahahahaahah Just kidding.

Thanks everyone who has reviewed, followed, favorited, etc! It blows my mind.


	9. Chapter 9

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this!

Warnings: swearing, etc

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For most people, August went by much too quickly, and the moment the First clocked in, a mad frenzy would settle like silt over the students. August was a countdown of sorts- the last month until school started, the last month of blithe freedom, and the last month to pack in another vacation to some exotic land.

For Harry, the month had trickled by slowly. The month marked the passing of an lurching stream roller trying to get uphill with no traction. It was a month without momentum, a month without motion, and a month with a singular beacon that loomed unnoticed in the distant horizon. The only resemblance his August had to his fellow students' was the countdown, but that too felt like grains of rice trying to pass through too small a funnel.

In the past, August's had always been a series of questions. Firstly, _will the bruises have enough time to heal before the start of term?_ Secondly, _are there enough cauldron cakes hidden underneath the floorboard to last the month?_ And lastly, _will I make it?_

Now, even without him stuck to the Dursleys' side like a parasite, he still thought of August in terms of those questions. The only way he could justify his unnecessary hoarding of food, the daily check for dark purple spots dotting his arms, and surreptitious glances he threw to possible escape exits whenever he entered a room, was by dubbing it mere force of habit.

He didn't know why this month made him feel so spineless and itchy, but it _always_ felt like there was a static-quality to the air and that the clouds were _always_ lined with dark rims. August was the type of quiet that occurred before thunder would break out.

Yet, despite his looming paranoia, life in Diagon Alley passed as normally for Harry as it always did, sometimes approaching yet never quite touching the first few, peaceful days in which he had arrived. He would wake up, get ready, greet the maids, eat, stop by a book store and peruse, before going back to his rented room to count the holes in the ceiling; starting the whole cycle over again the very next day.

Nothing deviated from what it was supposed to be, and that made it easy for Harry to forget. It made it easy for him to wash away in routine, and ignore the increasing frequency of the pounding in his bite, ignore the headaches that threatened to cripple him when he stood outside in the sun for too long, and ignore his decreasing appetite.

_It will go away. It's okay. Nothing's happening_- those were a few of the favorite phrases his head would dish out whenever he felt the inclination to do something about it.

It was only made slightly harder when the maids would approach him, scrutinizing the lines in his face, and wringing their hands in their aprons, say: "You look so sick, maybe you should be staying in bed!"

And he would say, fighting against the lingering horror in the back of his mind, "I think I've only got a little cold."

Some August days, when the clouds looked more heavy than others, and zapping in the air felt more pronounced, Harry would take a moment to entertain the idea of slinking back to Knockturn Alley- just for a little while- just to see if he could find the book he wanted. And it would only take another second for his mind to shoot that down, saying he shouldn't entertain silly ideas about a _Kindling_ and vampires!

He had gone through the thought pattern every morning and evening, like it was a scheduled routine, and it was a pleasant reprieve one morning when he had been awoken by something banging against the windows and not by those thoughts.

He had slumped forward into a sitting position, rubbing at the last remnants of sleep in his eyes, and dozily padded to the window on the far left wall. Pulling the curtains back, he was greeted by three owls carrying multiple parcels a little too heavy for them.

He opened his window wide, letting a very small one- who he later realized was Pig- in, and the rest came trailing after.

It took a full three minutes to untie all of the letter bedecking their legs and when he recognized the handwriting he waved each of them out of the window and away.

The first one was in terse handwriting,

_Harry,_

_You better tell an adult where you are RIGHT NOW! I swear if you're just going on some sort of completely idiotic adventure than I'll never talk to you again. Everyone is worried about you, including me, you idiot! Do you have any idea what you are doing? Even Dumbledore can't find you!_

_Please, please, Harry, at least respond to this letter so I know you're not missing or dead!__  
_

_Hermione_

Harry swallowed tensely, pushing the letter aside in favor of the next one.

_Harry,_

_Hey mate... mom's super worried about you and stuff; can't get anything done! Where are you? _

_Dumbledore came to... to where Hermione and I am at, uh, right now, you know I can't talk about it... anyways, I think I heard something about you being missing. Or whatever. _

_Please, tell us, tell me, where you are... you have no idea how ballistic Hermione is going right now. If she knew you were safe maybe she wouldn't have destroyed my chess set. _

___At least reply, I want to hear all about what adventure you're leaving me out on!_

_Ron_

The boy sighed.

_Harold Potter,_

_Hey! Fred here, where are ya, I just wanted to know how you wer-_

_George says hi_

_Give me back the pen, Forge_

_You got it, Gred_

_What sort of super scheme-ery and prank-ishness are you holding out on us?_

_Yeah! Tell us_

_Where you_

_are _

_and what you_

_are doing _

_-Also, don't be surprised if mum handcuffs you to her own arm when you get here_

_Gred and Forge_

The other letters he received, each one getting progressively more cringe-worthy than the one before, were from various members of what they called The Order, but by far the worst letters to read were Mrs. Weasley's and Sirius'.

Not only did they succeed in making a colossal guilt weigh on his chest like gathering sediments, but they had almost, _almost_, made him bring a quill to a clean piece of parchment and jot a note just to say that he was okay.

It was when a curious Hedwig poked her head over the perch and blinked at him with curious eyes that Harry rethought that strategy. If Dumbledore and his 'Order' got wind of it, they could potentially find him and cart him back to the Dursleys'.

It was a small chance but he couldn't risk it. Unsurprisingly, it was that train of thought which later kept the gnawing desire to venture back into Knockturn Alley at bay.

It wasn't until the very last week of August that thoughts about shady bookstores had reentered his head.

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(A/N)

Another chapter down. Reviews are appreciated! :)

* To anyone asking, Harry doesn't know about the Order very much yet because this is the summer after fourth year and he never got the chance to go to Grimmauld Place.


	10. Chapter 10

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this!

Warnings: minor swearing

* * *

Harry had spent the last day in Diagon Alley within the Leaky Cauldron, his activities ranging everywhere from sloppily reorganizing his trunk to crawling back in his rented bed and pulling the sheets over his head.

It was a hot, musky sort of day, being humid enough that the moisture of the air made him want to seep through the cracks in the floor. It negated any sense of the excitement he would've felt by going back to Hogwarts, and he had completely forgot about the rusticated stone walls, the rolling pastures that disappeared in the horizon infinitely, and the secret magic that crackled in the air. Especially when he thought his friends.

How angry would they be with him? He had wondered, cosying even further into the sheets despite the abominable heat; how long would it be until Hermione would talk to him again? Would she ever forgive him?

He nibbled on his lip, drowning seamlessly under the liquid mercury of his thoughts when he thought about Snape, Dumbledore, Remus, Sirius and Mrs. Weasley. The wet oxygen didn't relieve this feeling, instead only agitating the heaviness of his chest and his insurmountable laziness.

Harry could just imagine it- twiddling his thumbs at platform 9 and 3/4 with the sun beating down on him- and Mrs. Weasley would be there, too, with hunched shoulders and crossed arms, tapping one pudgy foot forward when she rushed Ron, the twins, and Ginny in.

The boy dozed from the warmth under the covers, feeling slightly uncomfortable as the heat bordered on becoming stifling, and further wondering what would happen.

And she'd stop, and see him with tired eyes, reeling because she couldn't believe it, and there he'd be, close to passing out and only able to give her one long blink, before she'd give him one bone-crushing hug and proceed to slap him on the side of the head. Telling him he was an idiot , an absolute fool, for making her and everybody else worry- without even giving a note of explanation! She'd cross her arms again, scrunching her sleeves in her clenched fists, frowning in red hot hate, and she'd tell him he was a freak and, oh boy, he was going to get it- he was going to get it this time- for what he did to Dudley, that freak!, for what he did- and she'd punch him and freak, freak, freak- and- teeth and-

Harry jolted up from out of the covers, rousing himself from half-consciousness and slipping out from his bed. He rubbed at his chest, taking a slow, deep breath to calm himself and shake from his musing. He was sure she'd never do that, or any of his friends, no matter how mad he made them.

His eyes settled on the analog clock hanging crookedly on the far wall, vision resting along the lower rim of the glass frame before slowly piecing together the time. It was one, and he had yet to leave the room.

He then proceeded to get dressed, throwing on whatever he could find from his trunk and packing the rest without folding them. He glided in the wide halls, no longer deterred by the questionable state of the Inn and, as per usual, sat down until a menu appeared and, five minutes later, a full meal.

Fried red kidney beans topped with a hearty helping of sauteed mushrooms and a small cup of what smelled like Earl Grey tea. It took him a full minute to pick up his fork, shoveling gently at the beans and digging into one, hovering the utensil around his mouth and shuddering at the smell. He slopped it back onto the plate, choosing instead to wait until it would start to appear appetizing.

He didn't know how long he sat there waiting, tapping his fingers along the cracked ceramic edge of the cup and finding himself able to drink it only because the flavor was so bitter and mute that it didn't make him automatically queasy at the thought of it.

Harry searched through his memory, trying to convince himself that yesterday he had eaten a particularly big meal, yet not finding it within himself to continue that lie.

His disinterest in food was starting to become dangerous. At least at the Dursleys' he ate whenever he could, and could feel consoled at the fact that his physical state was not caused by himself.

The boy frowned. He was not hungry for food.

The bite on his neck pounded.

He found himself wanting again. His head thrummed along with it, the smothered desire within himself to know, to find out, his very nature that refused quite plainly to stifled- the fervent and unstoppable heat of curiosity- made him get out of his seat and leave the meal, growing cold, still on the table.

He needed to go to Knockturn. He needed to find out what was happening to him. Yet he stopped right at the brick entrance, wavering backward and patting the flame within himself once again, regaining his mind if only for a moment.

There was no way he could do that. He was rushing into things without thinking about it first, and that's what got him into trouble in the very first place. If he went back, there's no telling what he'd see this time which he may or may not be able to escape from. The boy had met three drunkards and an insane old lady on his first visit, along with _that man_, and even him coming out alive could have been the triumph of luck. It would be equally plausible to meet something even more deadly than on that night.

Think, Harry, think. And so he leaned back, out of the way of the brick entrance and padded back to his room to nap until the next coming morning. He could always look in the Hogwarts' library if he needed to, and that would be much safer than heading to Knockturn for a page he didn't even know existed.

Harry clenched and unclenched his fist. Maybe tomorrow would be better. Maybe he'd be hungrier tomorrow.

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The next morning was a frenzy of activity, not only by himself, but by what seemed all of Diagon Alley. Even the normally cool-headed Tom seemed on edge when Harry bolted down the stairs, making the stairs _click-click-click_ when his packed suitcase banged against the edges of the wooden steps, and the boy could have sworn that if he payed a little bit more attention he would have seen the elder man jump.

But, he only saw it in the very corner of his eye, and so did the rest of the occupants when they scurried to leave or clean and bounce out through the brick entryway. September 1st hailed a new era not for just students, yet for what seemed all wizards.

The boy stepped forward, digging for galleons out of his pocket and dumping them nervously onto the counter in front of the man, waiting for him to count them.

He made no motion to count and stretched out his shirt, cupping the money with the large cloth and funneling them into a bucket behind him, "It's been a pleasure having you, take care of yourself, will ya?"

Harry nodded dismissively, heading whirring back and forth to see if he could find the time, and he looked indecisive, "Tell Cassa I said bye, and that I'll visit sometime soon."

The elder man nodded one single jerk of the head, watching him immediately spin the opposite direction and out of the Leaky Cauldron for the first time since he had arrived.

When Harry made it out the door, he paced quickly to a less crowded and less noticeable corner of Muggle London, fiddling with the lint on his robes and whispering confusedly, "I'm a stranded wizard; Knight bus..."

A moment later it appeared, so much more searingly red that he blinked rapidly just to get the after-image out from his head, and a familiar Stan Shunpike waited by the entrance, "Fare is...," he paused, continuing to chew on some sort of pungent taffy, "Ey! I know you, you were, you were 'ere in July, right?"

Harry nodded, peeking his head over the man's shoulder into the bus, before giving the man two galleons, "Can I go in now?"

Stan nodded with pursed lips, gesturing grandly just like how he had last time Harry was on the bus; yet the boy had barely remembered it because last time, he had been too shaky to truly notice the man's actions.

"Where to?"

He stepped on, this time gripping even more tightly at the edge of his seat and avoiding any incidences of slamming his face into the window, "King's Cross, please."

The bus zipped through narrow streets, "Hogwarts student, I suppose?"

The boy nodded, ignoring the ache that had set in his bones, which he had blamed on his bad sleep.

Sooner than he would've liked, he was shooed out of the bus, watching it disappear with a vague frown, and mustered the energy to dodge through large crowds of people with his empty cage and bursting suitcase.

He was met with a brick column between nine and ten that looked smaller than he had remembered and ran right through it onto an even more busy platform 9 and 3/4.

The train had not yet allowed anyone on.

He put his trunk down and sat atop it, straddling Hedwig's empty cage between his legs and awkwardly resting his chin on top of it. Briefly, he closed his eyes, getting lost in the sway of people and meaningless chatter, until he was abruptly pulled up so harshly his sense of balance was thrown aside.

Someone had grasped his arms and opening his eyes, he stared blinking at a fuming Professor Snape. There was a long, pregnant pause that seemed to continue between the both of them, the elder man frowning dourly, one corner of his upper lip raised in contempt, before deep-set black eyes pierced through his own like he was being strung on a kabob.

Harry blinked rapidly in a futile effort to throw off the man's gaze, "Professor..."

The man examined his pale face, not allowing him to get another word in when he gripped the boy's arm even harder, "Don't you dare speak to me, Potter, I will allow no excuses as to your inherent idiocy. Do you have any idea how long Dumbledore, his _allies,_ and myself have been forced to find you and drag you back like a mindless puppy?"

He swallowed.

"Not only have you drawn away our attention from more important research," the man paused, subtly catching his breath, "But you have led many of your friends and _mutt _into believing you may be dead. At this point, your arrogance and stupidity astounds even myself, seeming to have broken a barrier of ignorance that I had, prior from now, not known existed."

The man's shoulders raised and lowered quickly as if he had just taken some heaving breath, the redness of his usually sallow face speaking volumes of his anger. He looked like a thin and more articulate version of Uncle Vernon, especially considering the way he grasped at the boy's arm.

The boy opened his mouth, wanting to get his word in.

"There is no way you could possibly have an worthwhile or riveting excuse as to your act of brazen stupidity, so I will not allow you to speak for the duration of the train ride and, since you seem to have no conceivable way of _staying where you're supposed to be," _the man audibly gritted his teeth, causing Harry to twitch, "You will be under my surveillance until you get to the Welcoming Feast, and further until your Professors and I can be assured you won't take any more _vacations_."

He was dragged onto the train and knew instantly that, with the sun beaming straight through the train windows and a timid looking Hermione, following by Ron and his siblings, that he was in for a very long ride.

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(A/N)

If you have any constructive criticism, that would be great!


	11. Chapter 11

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing...

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Harry blinked, raising his face to the surface of the window, to look out an uncertain Hermione trailed by Ron, Ginny, Fred and George, despite the uncomfortable heat and pain that rose to his face.

The girl was leaning forward and back, every now and again taking cautious steps forward and rising to the tips of her toes to scan the heads in the crowd. Ron followed her lead, sometimes tapping at her arm, pointing towards a specific black-haired person, and disappointing everybody when that chosen person turned around.

The five would flit like hummingbirds from individual to individual, stopping to briefly question fellow Gryffindors and lean their heads in really closely to hang onto the every word. Many shook their heads, others shrugged their shoulders and some would squint their eyes and narrow their focus for a second- making Hermione especially more attentive- before mouthing 'No, I haven't seen him'.

At one point, Ron had excitedly grasped her arm, giving a particularly toothy grin before the both of them rushed off towards a stocky, black-haired boy that had glasses which took up his full face.

Harry pushed himself even more against the window, blinking with a growing sense of terror when she hugged the unknown boy from behind, likely thinking that it just had to be Harry.

As he had expected, the boy violently recoiled, turning towards her with a scrunched brow, and firmly planting his square rimless glasses over a very pudgy nose. A very pudgy nose and brown eyes that weren't Harry's own.

Ron stepped forward, shrugging and mouthing something along the lines of, "We thought you were someone else."

Through the window, even with sun tilting directly in his burning eyes, and casting a yellow, washed-out glow on the whole station, he could see her. Her back was faced towards him and with all too startling clarity, he watched as she took a hesitant step backwards, shoulders dropping like dead stones, and then heaving up and down like the line of a heart monitor measuring the pulse of an old, dying man. Her shoulders sped, trembling for a very long few seconds, before they flatlined and the heart monitor would let out a long, drawing and cold beep. And in his metaphor, the old man would be dead.

He pulled away when he couldn't withstand the pain of the sun any longer and, if he were entirely honest with himself, the weightiness of his guilt. And yet her trembling and, at other times, complete stillness repeated over and over in his head as if branded onto his pupils.

In an after image that glowed in his head, he could imagine her stepping even farther back from the boy, her smile disappearing like smoke from an open jar. Ron would step forward, pat her back in an odd attempt to either console her or get her attention.

The boy would mutely prod her, trying to get her to continue to scan the crowd, but she wouldn't and for the first time since she had entered the station, her eyes would sink to the ground as a corpse did in water.

The twins and Ginny would catch up to her, asking if she had found him, she would shake her head, and Fred would attempt to get her to laugh. She would have none of it.

This time, Harry's eyes burned from something separate from the sun, and he blinked rapidly when his vision started to blur over. He supposed it was a little bit of a miracle that Snape either didn't notice or didn't feel the need to comment on it.

He shut his eyes, slinking even farther back into his own seat and entertaining the possibility of rushing out the train, shaking her by the arms and letting her know he was alive. He paused, waiting awkwardly until Snape's eyes met his own, pointing out the window of the compartment, "Can I?"

"No," the man immediately shot down, with the briefest twitch of his lips.

The boy didn't feel like arguing and remained silent, even though both tasks were against his very Gryffindorish nature.

He rested against the seat, feeling with every molecule of his very being that it was wrong, and the next time he shot straight up was only a minute or so later when he heard footsteps through the narrow halls of the train and the repeated word: "Harry."

Their voices were muffled, "Has anyone seen Harry Potter?" And as they got closer to his own compartment, he sat up straighter and more frozen in his seat, peeking his head nearer to the door to listen to the sounds.

Snape regarded his pleading look, the man pursing his lips and forcing his way out of the compartment while shutting the door behind him.

The boy put his ear all the way up against the door, trying to seize every word. He heard Snape tap impatiently, imaging that he was gesturing towards himself at the boy's friends with a look of supreme irritation.

He heard footsteps and, not a moment later, frantic questioning, until Hermione's voice shushed them all- "Is he with you, sir? Is he?"

The man didn't say anything, yet Harry could imagine that he had given her an impatient nod.

As soon as that silent admission was made, the boy could feel the immediate relief in the atmosphere; "And he's okay?"

"Yes."

Relieved chuckles broke out; "Can we see him, Sir?"

It sounded like Ron's voice, but Harry almost reeled violently in disbelief at how sugary and polite it sounded.

The floor of the train creaked when the man stepped back and, suddenly, before the boy even had time to stand up and prepare himself, a rush of people huddled into the compartment and crushed him instantly.

If took a moment for his churning brain to realize that he wasn't being attacked and his body was not being crushed in a trash disposal, and an equally long pause to understand that the sudden and clawing arms that covered him were, in fact, quite simply, in short, hugging him.

His face swelled with heat and guilt and happiness, and he was suddenly no longer bothered by the claustrophobia and the heat, "I'm okay, guys, I'm okay."

Hermione held him at arm's length, examining his thin nose and green eyes and assuring herself that it was actually him, "Where were you?"

That was the first thing she said.

The boy swallowed at the tightness of his throat, letting the words froth out of his mouth, "I was in Diagon Alley."

The rest of the occupants frowned, yet Hermione looked perhaps the most confused, as if she wasn't able to process what she had just heard, "What?"

Her voice was strained like someone without a mouth trying to talk, and the compartment was so quiet and still, that he could hear the roar of chatter and the drop of a needle in the two adjacent compartments. He barely had time to take a breath, opening his mouth again only to be interrupted.

"You were in Diagon Alley? All this time? This whole time while Dumbledore, everyone," she paused, dropping her voice to a whisper, "The Order, was looking so hard to find you- and that's where you were? And that's where no one could find you? And that's where you were- safe? And ignoring us?"

Nobody spoke.

Hermione's shoulders trembled, raising very high against her neck as if pulled up by two strings, "How could you be so stupid? And so inconsiderate? How could you do that to me? Why?"

She was waiting for his reply, and Harry's eyes roamed from face to face, looking and feeling profoundly lost in a place he thought was familiar, "Can we talk about this later? Please? Please, not now."

No one moved forward except for Ron, who rested his hand briefly on the girl's shoulder even when she tried to shake it off. He gave her a long look, and in a whisper, as if Harry wasn't there, he said: "'Mione, I think it has to do with Them; you know," he paused, mouthing what he said next, "His relatives."

She blinked at him, the weight of his words not sinking in until she looked back at the boy, anger replaced with something else entirely. She frowned, brows knitting together, "Oh, Harry."

A red, rapid heat rose to the boy's face and he looked down towards his feet, pulling up the collar of his robes at her searching look, and everyone else seemed baffled by the exchange.

It was then that Snape chose to rush everyone out of the compartment, not including Harry himself, and this was met with very strong protest until the professor threatened them with a full month of detention.

As the train took off towards Hogwarts, most of the ride was awkward and tense, excluding a small exchange between them that occurred at what seemed an hour or so later.

"Who are 'them'?" the man had asked deliberately.

The question was so unexpected that it took the boy a full minute to understand what he was talking about, "None of your business, that's who."

"Your arrogance precedes you, Potter, a trait shared by your equally mediocre father."

The boy swallowed, standing abruptly, "Don't say a word."

Snape spelled a lock on the door, quirking an eyebrow in question.

"I'm not a kid, I don't need a lock! Or a supervisor!"

Narrowed eyes and a mutinous look, "Do you have short term memory loss or are you just daft? By the looks of it, both. Do you not remember your little expedition?"

"Don't talk about what you don't know," Harry sat back down, huffing in a conspiratorial way as the countryside rolled along and the tufts of smoke from the train darkened the sky, "I left for my own purposes."

They hadn't talked again after that.


	12. Chapter 12

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing

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The Welcoming Feast went by just the same as it did all other years, he sat by his friends at Gryffindor Table, Neville trailing along behind them, the professors all sat in their respective places, the regular speeches were given welcoming the new and old students, and all the same classic dishes were on the table.

Yet, something felt different, and Harry couldn't place what it was. Maybe it was how his friends kept throwing furtive and concerned glances to him- which wasn't that much different from last year, since they had always been suspicious about his 'treatment' under his uncle, yet this time, his professors had also joined in the act. It was unnerving, the moment he had walked in with Snape in tow, trying unsuccessfully to slink away to his table until halfway through the hall, they had all stood very tall to look over him, including Hagrid who had made the empty dishes rattle across the whole dining table.

Harry had at least expected this sort of reaction, after all they were apart of the 'Order' that Dumbledore and Snape had alluded to, and they likely knew of his missing status, yet he couldn't have expected that they'd remain tense and watchful over the duration of the feast.

Whenever he dared to throw a look back, he could tell and even feel how hard they were clenching their dinnerware, especially McGonagall, who had squeezed the knife so tight it looked like her fingers were going to burst under the pressure.

He had quickly looked away when his eyes curiously traveled up to her face, not even managing a sheepish look at the tightness of her brows that rivaled that tightness of her grip.

Aside from the unnerving and, at times, irritating, looks, the feast had also presented some deeply foreboding differences. Dumbledore had started his yearly speech, interrupted with a nasally 'hem-hem' and the man had confusedly, yet affably, stepped down, waiting for the source of the noise to speak.

Uhm-wedge, Uhmbrick, Umbride- it seemed, whatever her name was, had stood, the blaring pinkness of her outfit making Harry blink several times, with a voice that had a similar honeyed characteristic. A very bitter honey.

"Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind words of welcome, and how lovely it is to see your bright, shining faces all looking up at me..."

That made Harry stop listening altogether, cringing at the sound.

It was later when the food appeared, steaming and delicate and rich-looking, that Harry nonetheless found the numerous sticky rice cakes, ham and pork and all the meats under the sun, asparagus with a smattering of hot butter, plain toast, and treacle tarts- even treacle tarts- very unappetizing. The smell was unsavory, if not downright rotten, and yet it wafted all around him and drowned the room in the same stench that made him shake with nausea.

It was with superior control of the mind that he managed to not outright clamp his hand to his mouth and gag into it, instead coolly patting at his face with the napkin only managing to choke down a plain, burnt piece of toast.

He needed to eat real food, he needed nutrients, that's what his brain thought. Yet somewhere deep down in the very depths of his mind, somewhere that instead acted on instinct and didn't know the meaning of rationality, somewhere his mind pulsed with a different thought and a different feeling. And that was the part of him that spoke, almost inaudibly, yet definitely there: It's not human food I want.

It made his leg twitch upward and hit the table, rattling the dishes on it, and make everyone give him an irritated look before going back to their food.

He was changing, and he knew it. He was changing very quickly. And he didn't know how, but he knew it was for the worse.

The infinite hole in his mind spoke again: soon.

He had to stop it.

He couldn't even remember how the rest of the feast went.

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The first week passed on just as usually as the four others he had in his history of being a student, sluggish and yet exciting, but this year it was without it's usual spark. This year he didn't feel that sense of security he'd always had when distancing himself from the Dursleys', which was the main reason he'd grown fond the towering turrets and scuffed portraits that extended above his head infinitely. Or so it seemed, at least when he was in first year.

This was supposed to be a week that would reaffirm in his mind that he had made it, somewhat unscathed, that he was here and he didn't have anything to worry about until the summer months would reapproach like a looming storm cloud.

However, now it was different, a feeling that had not disappeared and stuck with him ever since the Welcoming Feast. The problem was no longer outside the castle, and outside the barrier made by the thick stone slabs, the problem was right beside him and right within him.

The problem was his friends and their questions, rushing right to his side as if attached at the hip, and they would say: "You said we would talk about it,", and "Are you okay?", and the most irritating question that would ultimately follow, "And you're sure you're okay?"

The problem was the professors and the inscrutable looks they would give him, as if trying to solve a particularly difficult puzzle.

And most of all, the problem was himself. Something was happening to him. Something was changing within himself; it was a problem that, at some points, lingered on the horizon and at other points, whispered in his right ear. Yet at both times, he knew it was there.

One evening, he had awoken in the dorm room, not able to fall back asleep, and he decided to burrow himself into the little niche with the window that, like many other things, seemed a lot bigger when he was eleven.

The hills were silhouetted in blackness, and his eyes trailed along the delicate curve of the rolls and hilts that dotted the land- land that would rise and droop as if it were the stomach of a sleeping giant.

The blades of grass at the very top of the hills would meet with the sky, deep blackness touching a lighter, more gray shade intermittently dotted with stars like pinpricks through a sheet of fabric.

He loved it there, in the niche almost too small to fit him, he loved it a lot more than how he used to drag a night table to the window with creaky, broken black bars, and stand on it, trying to peek his small head to the little crack. The roofs of the cookie cutter houses would always obstruct the night sky, clashing at odds with it, because such a building was meant to keep the night out, and even then he could ever see much.

At Hogwarts, it was the opposite, the foundation breathed the very essence of the night, letting it seep through cracks and unlit dorms and through windows so thin and tall that they almost didn't exist. And there were no lights, and the only thing that could ever get in the way of the stars was the wispy little clouds who also loved the night.

And now, hunching his head and letting his breath fog over the glass, he realized with startling clarity that it had changed to. That the niche was too small to support himself anymore. And the night now welcomed something different from peace.

His bite pounded faster and with more pain than it usually had.

He curled into himself, stepping down and back to his bed to pull the red curtains over his four-poster bed, falling into a restless sleep interrupted only a few hours later.

_The Vampire gingerly patted the boy's waisted, long arms encircling him and resting his chin atop his head, "And you're ready?"_

_"Yes, yes, I am," Harry said, his voice a breathy whisper into the man's chest as he tried to step backward into the darkness, yet the arms burrowed him even farther into the vampire, "Please."_

_"Careful, young one, do not let your teeth think for your brain," the man warned, "Control yourself, savor your meal."_

_The boy felt his teeth pulse and expand as the vampire gently prodding the scar on his neck, the smell of a human making him try to push away from the man who only responded by gripping tighter._

_Harry was pushed back and turned towards the cobbled streets, his body lingering just barely over the edge of alleyway, "Which one smells the best, little Raven?"_

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(A/N) Okay, okay, the wait it over. Things are going to start to happen again.


	13. Chapter 13

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

It was 1:40 am and four seconds, approximately a balmy fifteen degrees Celsius, and within one-hundred kilometers, there existed a few hundred suitable meals which the vampire could order his servants to retrieve for him. If he so desired, that is.

However, it was a particularly odd evening for him, this evening at- now, 1:41 am and thirty or so seconds- he felt quite dreary and unusually exhausted.

He sniffed the air again, wondering if his senses proved wrong and that it was perhaps 5:00 am, or some other time that would justify his tiredness. Alas, they were never wrong- he was never wrong- and yet he sat, wilting in the cushions like grass without water, and dozing as he read the confidential report about the recent skirmishes along the borders of the Czech Republic. Fueled, of course, by the surge in population of _his kind_.

Official royal duties were never seasoned to his liking, yet this too could not account for the exhaustion pressing against him. And neither did it account for the other changes which had been rapidly redefining his character and temperament, as of late.

He clicked the sharp point of his teeth together, gritting softly, and moved his chair over to the expanse of window just behind his head and forgetting the report that laid on his desk.

The night was as deep and black as any other, burgeoning with life that threatened to teem over the hills and encroach on his territory, and so quiet he could hear his eyelids meld together whenever he blinked.

It was an alive night, a night that should have electrified him, a night he should've sensed the pulsing of each individual heart in the valley, and a night he should've been indulging in.

And yet he was tired and achy and bored, and felt as if a piece of himself was missing and yet to be found. He was not hungry, or thirsty, or penniless, without tasks he could be doing, or even without the night; and yet he longed for something more. He longed for a sensation that was palpable, like a sort of invisible steam that would collect on his skin, that he could feel, that he knew with every fibre of his being was there, yet he had no way of catching. And he didn't even know what it was, but the ache of yearning had existed ever since that Night, with the boy.

The vampire sunk further into his chair, running a hand busily through his curly locks, and blinked half-lidded at the stars.

The night had changed, it had left him bereft. Or, maybe it was him who had changed.

He couldn't help how his head slumped against the armrest, and how he fell into a deep, yet quickly interrupted sleep.

_His fingers laced themselves in the boy's hair, encircling his arms around the boy's waist greedily, and placing his chin over the top of his head like a crow looking for danger, "And you're ready?"_

_"Yes, yes, I am," the boy said, breathing with a husk against the vampire's chest, and trying to detach himself gently before the man only pulled him in father in a fit of possession; "Please."_

_"Careful, young one, do not let your teeth think for your brain," he admonished, "Control yourself, savor your meal."_

_The man continued to grasp him with multiple calculations going off in his brain, considering the probability of risk to what was his and strategically mapping out the safest routes his young one could take in order to suitably displace harm._

_The boy pushed away, toeing the line between the alley and the cobbled streets before the vampire asked, "Which one smells the best, little Raven?"_

The moment he awoke, his consciousness was attacked with information. 3:13 am and five seconds. Seventeen degrees Celsius; no, incorrect, still fifteen degrees Celsius; minor causal shift in atmospheric pressure resulting in increased bodily temperature without true change in heat.

His gums pulsed, teeth shredding through the soft tissue with such force it caused him to flinch backwards and propel himself out of the seat. He dropped to the floor on all fours, deliberately scaling and pausing, spitting at the acrid taste of his own blood in his mouth and feeling his pupils dilate to encompass his entire iris.

He was fully energized.

The very moment he had let in the first inhale of breath, the smell had almost overwhelmed him so greatly to the point he staggered onto his back.

That scent, that scent, the subtle scent of the sepals that peeled from not-quite-blooming roses in early May, the fragrance of cinnamon and crushed rosemary, the most familiar smell on earth-

He knew it. He knew that smell.

He had smelt it before.

And now, it was there, ready to greet him once more with it's delicate, sanguine taste. It was that smell of, of-

A disjointed memory went off in his brain, holding still for a moment, before clicking to another scene.

Pale, flickering lips, and black hair, long and thin body, scrunched brows; a fourth night and a first night, three drunk men and bright green eyes-

_Him_. That boy.

The vampire jumped to his feet in a flurry of activity, letting an instinctive and guttural growl escape up out of his throat and through his mouth, pacing forward and unlatching the window in order to get a stronger whiff of the scent.

"_Au nom de Circé_," he growled, puncturing the windowsill he underneath his hands, "_Pas du tout! Merde, merde, merde!_"

It wasn't possible, there was no way, this had to- it just had to be- a different scent. This couldn't be the same boy, such a thing is not possible!

He took in another breath, cataloging new sensory information; 3:16 am and thirty-five seconds, fifteen degrees Celsius, cold winds gathering along the East, not likely to rain for another week- he stopped, feeling his teeth pulse at the scent. The scent he had smelled before and taken.

It was impossible! It was entirely impossible and yet, the scent was telling him otherwise, and the scent was never wrong.

That boy, that boy, could it be? Could he be alive? Could it be...

_The Kindling_.

His brain clawed at the thought, bringing the possibility to the very front of his mind and examining it roundly. The very word threatened to tear at his seams, just how likely was it? Such a story was mere mythology, he knew, and yet...

The man tore straight across the other side of his study, dumping books from off the shelves in a feverish haze, and scanning the titles to look at any worthy information.

He let out a deep call, laced with irritation, and only a moment later a timid, blinking servant rushed into the room.

The other man bowed deeply, smiling with a twitch, "Your Majesty," the man said, "What is it that you require of me?"

"_J'ai besoin d'un livre,_" the vampire muttered to himself, regarding the servant with a deepening expression, "I need a book! A book about The Kindling, now! Get it for me!"

The servant swallowed, taken aback by the murderous threat that trembled in the voice of his Lord, and nodded before bowing deeply and dashing off in a frenzy.

The vampire stamped the books with the heel of his boot, pacing the room as tried to stifle his anger and wandlessly slamming the window behind his desk shut.

This boy, this infuriating boy, that drove him wild, that drove his mind and his chest to the brink of insanity with that sweet scent and those wide green eyes; that boy who had resisted his _Allure_ more casually than a fly, that damnable boy whose skin smelt as fresh as if it had been unclaimed, that boy who plagued his mind and his dreams so unassumingly-

His thoughts were interrupted only moments later when the servant knocked and entered, looking out of breath yet forcing himself to take slow exhales, "Sire," he began, "I retrieved this from-"

He was interrupted when the vampire hastily grabbed it, flipping through the text, "Leave."

The servant nodded, bowing, before he left the room without bothering to ask if there was anything else his liege required.

The vampire hastily traced his eyes down through the contents, murmuring under his breath and perusing to the section in the back of the book, entitled: '_The Kindling Returned'_

_When the turning of the age occurs,_

_when the foes threaten to destroy Us,_

_One- A Kindling to the Fire- shall rise up,_

_Once human, then Turned_

_Half his kind, Half Our Kind_

_Scent sweeter than roses,_

_Bonded forever to the Turner_

_The Kindling will rise_

_The Kindling will save Us_

The man bowed his head over the text, shoulders drooping, and he reminded himself of wax dripping off a lit candle.

At first glance, it was implausible, and it certainly felt so, yet- keeping in mind the thousands of years the Vampiric race has existed, wouldn't the probability that the time he existed in now, or any other time for that matter, in which a Kindling or some other fated savior would appear, be inevitable?

Probability all depended on the statistics of humans bitten per year and in just magical Britain alone, that figure would be at very least a couple thousand, a significant cut of the population. Would it be too preemptive to assume at least one of the bitten would, at some point in human history, survive it?

However, if the destiny of said human is predetermined, and the general time of the bite also fated to happen, then that leaves no room for probability to exist within the scenario at all. Assuming such a savior does exist, or will exist, then it certainly wouldn't be too conclusory to state that of all eras in Vampiric history that '_The Kindling'_ would be needed now.

The continuing violence going on as of late, attacks along more than just the borders of the Czech Republic, but widespread anti-Vampiric movements occurring in Egypt, the Balkan states, the sub-African continent, and not to mention Britain, would warrant it.

This includes not just formation of opposition by magical humans, yet muggles alike, who are too becoming more cognizant of the existence of vampires. True, muggles who think vampires exist, as of this time, are thought of as crazed yet it could be only a matter of time until full-throttle movements to decimate vampires are launched by big non-magical governments.

While it wasn't as much as a threat in the fifteenth century when such attacks were promoted, now it could be with the mind-boggling expansion of technology that rivals the power of wizards themselves. Muggles have created weapons causing mass destruction, able to threaten the lives of millions, and that could surely destroy all of the vampire existence.

A visible shiver wracked his body at such a thought.

If there was any era in which a Kindling would arrive, it would be now, in perhaps the most volatile and dangerous era there was as of yet. And maybe, just maybe, he was the one to have caused the development of such a fated Savior.

If only...

The man blinked, glancing out the window and plopping the text on his desk when he realized that the sun was sure to rise soon.

He could think on it later.

He took a deep breath.

He would find that boy.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

(A/N)

1) _Au nom de Circé: _in the name of Circe...

2) _Pas du tout! Merde, merde, merde!: _No way! Shit, shit, shit!

3) _J'ai besoin d'un livre: _I need a book

wooo

Reviews please! I would love constructive criticism!

Thank you to everyone who has followed, favorited, reviewed, read, etc!


	14. Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this!

Warnings: swearing

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

_"Which one smells the best, little Raven?"_

The only thing Harry could register in his head was the feeling of sweat and pain. Big, fat droplets coated his scalp and chest and legs, coating it so thoroughly that, the moment he awoke, the boy thought that maybe he had been drowning.

And pain. Pain so fiery and constant that he couldn't even find the source of it, because it ached everywhere, in every tangible region of nerve and bone and tendon and muscle, it roasted; a violent civil war set on the shore of his bloodstream. A body both accepting and rejecting itself.

His lids rejected the very notion of his eyes fluttering open and, when they finally did, it was only by clasping his palms deep into his mouth that he stifled a scream.

That was when he felt it, felt two, hard pellets in his mouth and spat them into his open hand, squinting and feeling them and, realizing with a deep, shuddering cough that they were his teeth.

His teeth.

Trembling fingers felt for the two parallel, empty spaces in his mouth, and when they did, they squeezed gingerly, only to fling right back out of his mouth.

Terrible, sharp pain. Something, something- it- something was forcing its way out of his gums. Two hot screwdrivers forcing nails right out of his teeth.

The pain and sweat mingled into each other, their boundaries becoming indistinguishable, until sweat felt sharp and pain smelled musky.

For the first time since he awoke, Harry took a deep breath, and that was when he smelt it.

He sniffed, not sure of what soft scent had been wafting in the room, and suddenly the smell of- of- decaying leaves and compost and pine trees and Bluebells; the smell of bark right after it rained, that was so tender and soft that he cut into it with his fingernails; of Spring just beginning to break out through Winter; overwhelmed him.

It was so strong and tangible that he thought, if he just reached his arm out, he would've been able to touch it, and feel thick branches, the soft pattering of rain over his skin, and the delicate petals of a Narcissus.

And he did reach out, trying to feel what he'd imagine being the forest, to imagine a figure above him with dark curls and wheat-yellow eyes, and was surprised when he couldn't feel it.

So surprised that, firstly, he couldn't feel the forest and, secondly, he had been thinking of that man, that his head was catapulted straight back into reality and sweat and pain which he had nearly forgotten.

Despite the pain, he had longed for that scent, longed for the owner of it so fully and so completely that Harry thought it would be a crime if nature didn't break its own laws and bring that man to him.

He laid rigidly, not able to fathom the thought of moving out of bed and wondering, as reason and awareness eluded him, if the scent was emanating just on the other side of the curtain.

Yet, when he pushed the curtain downward, he was struck with an empty view of Ron's bed right next to his own.

"Tomorrow," the boy promised to himself drowsily, fully understanding the whispered statement at the moment yet, in the morning, not having a clue of what he had been trying to tell himself.

He forced himself to sleep, shutting his eyes and letting the war in his body and head fully drain him of the resources that consciousness would demand.

All the while, the smell of earth guided him.

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Through the rest of the night, feverish and sick, the boy drifted in and out of consciousness, never really aware whether he was awake or not or somewhere in between in a limbo state that most Eastern philosophers spent their lives trying to get.

All he could piece together, in those blithe and confused moments of more-awake-than-asleep, was a ringing discomfort and limbs mingled in between sheets and cold wetness and his mouth letting quiet profanities slip out past their borders.

The one sensation that lived right in more-asleep-than-awake and more-awake-than-asleep and limbo was the throbbing of his gums where two pointed teeth were beginning to emerge.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

When he finally woke up, it was to the sound of rustling and tired conversation.

Ron was the first to talk, voice gritty with phlegm yet still quite boisterous, "Do you 'spose Harry's gone to the Great Hall already?"

No one replied except for Neville, "I would think so, he's usually the one to wake us up."

Harry hoped greatly that no one would slide open his curtains- he didn't think he'd have the capacity to deal with doing anything other than curling into himself even farther, let alone get up and act normal.

"Yeah," the other boy agreed, pausing, "I'm just gonna check."

He tensed, hearing footsteps approach closer and, glancing up from the sheets, saw fingers curl around the curtain fabric and get ready to yank them open.

The boy didn't so much as breathe; hoping, praying, that somehow he'd turn invisible without his cloak on.

And then, more footsteps from a different source, and a quick knock on the door.

Those fingers uncurled from the curtain and without warning a- a- prefect, no, a Head Boy, it sounded like- bounded in, breathless, "The Headmaster has got an announcement to make, everyone report down to the Great Hall immediately."

Harry heard more rustling, probably everyone hurrying to put the rest of their clothes on and fix their hair into a semblance of neatness, until he heard steps out the dorm.

It was after five minutes of hearing nothing except beads of sweat roll down his skin, that he allowed himself a deep sigh of relief, "Thank Merlin."

That was so close, was all he could think, dizzy with relief; and he should know because he'd often had great deals of experiences that were close.

It was with great difficulty that he scooted to the left side of his bed and opened the curtain, hissing at the daylight and feeling a far more pronounced pain than was usual, yet finding it bearable.

He then shuffled to the the dormitory bathroom, leaning against the frame and making sure it was dead silent before he allowed himself to drift in further.

When he leaned against the porcelain sink, patting cold water on his hot face, his eyes drifted to the mirror and he almost couldn't believe what he had seen.

It was himself, trembling so much he almost couldn't meet his own eyes, yet recognizing the flushed face, pale lips, and wet mat of hair.

He cupped cool sink water into his hands, vividly reminding himself of being at the Dursleys' and hunched over a hose, and probed it over his sore gums, almost moaning at the sensation of hot pain pooling out of them and into the water before he allowed it to dribble down his chin and patter on the edge of the porcelain.

The water was pink.

He cautiously lifted at his upper lip with a shivering hand, examining the redness that was either from irritation or caked blood in his mouth, vision sidling to the two empty spots that interrupted the rows of otherwise perfectly intact teeth.

Weak knees almost collapsed underneath him, ears not recognizing the hiccoughs and short, painful whines as his own until several moments later.

He was becoming _It_, he was becoming one of _Them_, what bit him.

Not human. He wasn't going to be human anymore. Or, maybe he wasn't even that anymore. Maybe he was already_ it_. The one thing that made him at least a little bit normal, the one thing he shared with everybody else- gone. Just like that.

The moment he thought there wasn't enough oxygen in the bathroom, and that it was hopeless, and that he would lose everything- he was just as suddenly caressed by the scent.

The forest.

Okay. Okay. It's okay, really. He could never hope to be normal now, but it wasn't all bad, was it?

Harry regarded the corpse in the mirror, wondering how he was going to get through the day.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

A/N

Alright, sorry it's been a few days! It's my spring break and I was, uh, doing stuff. Important stuff.

Anywhosies... I would be ever-so-delighted if you would grace a winged review upon'st my humble shoulders.


	15. Chapter 15

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

Harry hunched over the sink, shivering as more droplets of water ran down his face and not exactly understanding why because he felt unbearably hot.

Whatever he chose to do, he had to decide quickly.

The boy wondered seriously about just going back to the dorm and curling up until he fell back asleep. It would be so simple for the first thirty minutes- until, that is, Potions would start and he would both be causing a frantic search for him and then a consequent month of detention for skipping class.

And when they did eventually find him, seeing as that his own bed was not a particularly suitable hiding place, they'd also get full view of how bad he looked. Fevered and sick and glassy eyed, not to mention with missing teeth.

But just what was the other option? What else could he do? Harry examined himself in the mirror, blinking with a slow and dopey frown, and wondering if he was as flushed and sweaty as he thought he looked.

Hell, the moment he opened his mouth he'd be carted off to the Infirmary; if not St. Mungo's.

Either way they'd probably find out about him, and what was happening to him, but at different times.

The boy put his face up towards the mirror, resting his forehead on it and leaning his abdomen against the edge of the porcelain; taking care to inhale as the scent of forestry lingered in the air.

_Glamour charm_.

Harry roused himself from against the fogged mirror, head perking up inscrutably at the thought. Could it work? Could he really pull it off for a whole day until he was allowed to slump back into the dorm, and no one would notice a thing?

Surely they would, surely they'd see right through it, with the way his hands trembled and with how labored his breathing was. If he barely had the energy to stand then how could he find the energy to use that sort of magic and keep it up all day?

The boy shifted himself, leaning his weight against the linoleum plastered over the castle stones and allowing his body to slide right down to the floor.

_You've used glamour charms in even worse conditions than this_, Harry thought, red face darkening in what he thought was either shame or horror or a combination of both.

It was true, over the Summer he'd always acquire a multiplicity of bruises from a number of sources he'd rather not disclose. In public, anyways.

He'd had some experience and, not to mention, talent at the particular charm; it wouldn't really be too much to use it now when he really needed it, right?

No one ever suspected a thing when he had used it before.

Harry coughed.

Well, yes, they did, but they never could see any proof and then a week would go by, maybe two, and they'd all just forget about it! They always did.

It could work, it worked on countless scrapes he'd had before, it worked when he was on the brink of exhaustion; so, why not now?

With that in mind, he dug through his robes to find his wand and, scrutinizing the color in his face, cast it before moving to his forehead and touching up the weak areas.

The most tricky area to glamour was his teeth; he'd only ever had experience working with skin, but after some careful charming of the gums they looked almost just like normal.

When he was finally done, he emerged from out the common room and slunk down to the Great Hall; vaguely remembering hearing something about an important announcement.

It must've been pretty important, considering that nothing like having a Head Boy go from dorm to dorm has ever happened before just to make sure everyone heard it.

The closer he approached, the more silent he realized the Great Hall was from beyond the thick oak doors, and only Dumbledore's voice rang out to him, making a few words intelligible; "Be watchful... professors will be looking out..."

For some reason, it made his skin itch, yet he quickly dismissed the sensation when students began streaming out from the Great Hall and heading to their first class.

Whatever it was, it probably had to do with an intruder in the castle; he'd made a similar speech when he thought Sirius was here in third year. Harry couldn't help but feel a pervading sense of wrongness.

The boy teetered on the stairs uncomfortably, looking over the heads of the crowd for Ron and Hermione, but stopped when he started feeling exhaustion pool in his legs and decided to just make it to Potions.

Once he had made it, he situated himself the nearest to the back that he could get and Neville quickly took the seat next to him, scratching at his ear and looking down at the stained desk, "You wouldn't mind being partners today, Harry?"

"It's no problem," he said, quickly adding, "Do you know Dumbledore's announcement was?"

Neville blinked, "So you weren't there."

"I slept in and no one woke me up."

"Wait," there was a pause, and Neville's entire face scrunched as he started fiddling with the quill on his desk, "Then how did you know there was one in the first place?"

Harry stilled, lying smoothly, "I heard people talking about it on the way to class."

The other boy lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "Word is that Dumbledore thinks a dark creature-"

A deep, bass voice cut through all the conversation in the room, "Silence!"

The boy couldn't help the inquisitive look that remained on his face long after his head snapped to the front of the room, making Snape comment wryly on his lack of brains, and with that the class was shoved into the regular motions.

The professor gave a short lecture, stressing certain pages in the book and ending with the usual remark: "Only a dunderhead could possibly mess up this potion," throwing a look towards either Neville or Harry himself, and lastly motioning everyone into action.

The boy tried to stir himself from his seat, and felt his vision whirl until he sat back down again, "Neville, do you think you could get the ingredients?"

He nodded, scurrying to the other end of the room and toting his book in hand, taking so long that everyone had sat back down except for Neville as he continually took things and put them back.

By this time, Hermione had spotted Harry and dug an elbow into Ron's side, pointing and giving the boy a questioning look.

"_I slept in too late_," he mouthed, shrugging his shoulders with a fake sheepishness.

Ron grinned widely, "_Sorry._"

When Neville got back, the boy immediately set to putting the burner under the cauldron, and they began.

Neville readily took the role of telling Harry what to add and at what times, uncomfortably checking and rechecking the cauldron at regular intervals.

Meanwhile, Harry was resigned to dicing Monkshood with hands whose trembling grew more pronounced with each task, and by the end of the lesson he almost missed the cauldron entirely when trying to pour in finely powdered Daisy root.

The boy shivered at the chill from underneath his robes.

"Hey, are you feeling alright?"

"Yeah."

It was much too cold in the Dungeons, and it was a relief when he was dismissed to Transfiguration.

He was, of course, flanked by Ron and Hermione the whole way- who both chattered about one thing or another he had no interest in hearing at the moment, yet nodded and laughed in the right times.

Every now and again Hermione would give him a look that almost made him think she could see through his glamour entirely, which continued not only when they were traversing from floor to floor but right all through McGonagall's class. It only managed to tire him more.

The class somehow seemed even more long and unbearable than Potions as he tried to stifle the shaking throughout the entire lesson. This was while not only Hermione but the Professor would throw him looks. They were much too observant for their own good, he thought.

Halfway through the class, the lecture had stopped and the students were instructed to practice phase transitions from a liquid to a solid and back again.

Finally able to speak with Hermione, Harry leaned in and asked, "Hey, what was Dumbledore's announcement about?"

She stood straighter, readying her lecture mode, "Really, Harry, you shouldn't be skipping breakfast; my mum told me ever since I was little that if you don't then you won't perform well!" she crossed her arms, "Anyways, Dumbledore thinks that, well..."

"What?"

"The Headmaster thinks a dark creature of some sort entered the school last night, and is telling everyone to be cautious and keep an eye out," she informed, pursing her lips and giving him a long look, "And not go looking for it."

A very bad feeling grew in Harry's chest; a gaping, black hole, "What do you mean? How does he even know?"

Hermione tapped at her chin, glancing sideways as if to remember some forgotten detail, "He said that the wards around Hogwarts had alarmed him that something dark had just _appeared_ in the school," she said, "Which makes no sense because there are anti-apparition wards placed by the Headmaster himself."

A dark creature? How? He wanted to ask more questions but McGonagall had come round to their side of the room, so he turned dutifully to his work.

Holding his wand and casting the spell at various angles, mindlessly trying to get it to work, he considered more of what she told him.

A dark creature. What kind was it, anyways? And how could it just '_appear_' in the school? Dumbledore's a strong wizard, his anti-apparition wards couldn't be broken by just any creature.

Appeared... just like that. Poof.

It must be something that was already inside the school to begin with... something that...

Harry's wand clattered to the floor, the echo of wood against stone inaudible to everyone else except for himself.

_Clack-_

It was the echo of dawning horror; as loud as a jet engine exploding in his head and just as scalding.

Oh, Merlin. No.

He was the _dark creature_ that had appeared in the school last night.


	16. Chapter 16

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

_I'm a dark creature_, Harry thought,_ I must be_.

He supposed it should have been obvious before; he had known he was changing for a long time now. And yet, it wasn't. It was an insidious, niggling little piece of information that hadn't even occurred to him until now.

His wand rocked along the stone ground, rolling with what seemed a deliberate slowness until it burrowed into the little mortar indent; resigning itself to a motionless that mimicked Harry's own.

How hilarious. How darkly ironic. How twisted. Gryffindor's 'golden boy', the Boy-Who-Lived, the 'Savior', the 'Chosen One' to fight for the light- Harry Potter- was a dark creature.

The boy who has to fight against the epitome of dark, Voldemort, now dark himself. How could fate possibly find a way to make the situation more comical?

It was Hogwarts' wards that had recognized him, that were trying to out him to the Headmaster in order to protect the other students.

Hogwarts thinks that he would hurt other people, other students, and so does Dumbledore.

And Hogwarts was home.

The one place where he knew he belonged, the one place where he could feel safe- was turned against him.

How laughable.

Harry's chest tightened.

Harry wondered what the Headmaster would do if he knew what Harry was. Would he kick the boy out of the school? Would he send Aurors to hunt him down?

What would the students do? His friends?

Just how deep did his darkness go to set off the wards; was it brimming just past the skin, laced in the muscles, the tendons, the nerves- was it all in his head, or was it in his very blood?

Harry's breathing faltered, the air itself starting to shiver and solidify in his lungs, and as suddenly as he looked at the stones beneath his feet, he was just as quickly struck with the unfamiliarity of it.

The secret magic that tingled all throughout the castle pervaded him, the stained glass resembling nothing he had seen before, and he felt the memories decay. He couldn't tell whether it was himself or if the castle was avoiding him, somehow. Either way, he felt like a foreigner among the Amish.

He stifled the lump him throat, swallowing thickly and bending down to pick up his wand, casting spells fruitlessly because his mind was elsewhere.

He had barely registered it when the class was dismissed and it was only when Hermione elbowed at his side that he started packing up his things, lurching into the hallway.

The moment he got out of the door, Hermione took a moment to look at his face, "Harry, are you feeling alright?" she asked, narrowing her eyes, "You look flushed!"

Harry stopped, nibbling on the edge of his lower lip, "Hm? Really? I feel fine!"

The glamour must be wearing off.

If they saw his teeth...

He needed to reapply it, quickly.

"I'll see you guys in the Great Hall! I need to talk to Flitwick about, my, the essay he assigned."

As he started traversing up the steps, he felt a tug at his robes, and was met with the girl's defiant glare, "That's it! You're going to the Infirmary!"

The boy tightened under her searching look, feeling twitchy, "What? Why?"

Hermione gripped even harder at his robes, dragging him down several steps back to her level, "You- you run away to Diagon Alley, without a word, and you don't tell us why, you're not eating right, you always look like you stayed up all hours of the night and... and now you, you don't look okay, you never look okay, Harry!" she blinked rapidly, voice a rasp, "You look really sick!"

The boy threw Ron a pleading look, and he just scratched the back of his neck, resigned, "She's right, you know."

His voice was a low, irritated whisper, "What are you trying to say to me?"

Hermione clenched and unclenched her fist into Harry's robes, balling them up in her hands, and looking down at the staircase as if to gather strength before looking back up, "Oh come on, you must know, everyone's thinking it! I've always thought it, but you're just so- you're just so bloody," Ron let out a quiet gasp, "So bloody stubborn that you won't tell anyone about what those people do to you!"

"I haven't a clue what you're talking about," Harry said.

"We're your friends," she said.

"Let me go."

"I want to make sure you're okay first."

This was bad. This was very bad. If she took Harry to the Infirmary then Pomfrey would find out and tell Dumbledore. And Dumbledore would- he didn't know what Dumbledore would do, "I'll go to the Infirmary on one condition."

She threw Ron a private look, the two having a silent conversation, "Okay."

"That you don't go with me there."

Hermione took a breath through flaring nostrils, "And you promise you'll go? You swear?"

The boy nodded, feeling guilt turn his stomach.

The girl looked at her hands still balled up in Harry's robes and, after a few moments, withdrew them, "Okay, we trust you," she said, "We'll see you later."

The two receded to the Great Hall, sometimes giving him looks as if to see whether he'd disappeared or not, and once they had turned a corner, the boy rushed to the nearest bathroom.

When he looked in the mirror, he immediately set to work, touching up the flushed skin and working with the glamoured teeth again to make them more solid and real looking. It was strange how quickly the spell was fading; in his earlier experience it always lasted at least a full day.

Of course, he was more exhausted now than when he usually cast the spell.

Looking much better than when he had walked in, Harry made his way to the Great Hall to greet his friends, sitting next to them at an empty spot.

"Pomfrey gave me a," he paused, "Pepper-Up Potion; it helped a lot, really," he said to their questioning looks.

Hermione pursed her lips out of habit, "Well, you do look a lot better, I suppose..."

When the tension dissipated, Ron started chattering loudly about the Chudley Cannons, remarking that they were sure to win the next game against some Scottish team or another because, sure, they had recently been having a bad streak yet the new beater was really starting to warm up to his position and-

He stopped listening at that, thinking maybe in a little while things would go back to normal, and this thought marked the rest of his day passing without incident.

He sat in Flitwick's class dutifully, mastering the art of looking as if he were actually listening, and letting his mind wander for the rest of the lesson before scuttling to History with Binns'; finally heading to the common room, finishing the work he absolutely had to before using the excuse that Pomfrey said it would be best if he got some sleep to get rid of his "nasty cold".

As he flopped into his four poster bed, pulling the curtains shut with one hand and feeling inexplicably happier than he had all day he was suddenly reminded that he had the rest of the week to churn through before it would be the brief, weekend reprieve.

Four days. He could get through four days, right? That was nothing.

He groaned, remembering that Fred and George thought it absolutely crucial he take advantage of the Hogsmeade weekend in order to meet with him to test their products for a new shop they wanted to start- Wizarding Weasley's Wheezes- Weezard Wheezing Weasel's- Wheezes' Weasley's Wizarding-

He almost laughed, the line of consciousness blurring over the more he dozed; that was Saturday, at least. Saturday was a long time away.

_The Scent_ lulled him to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

He was going to kill that boy when he found him.

It would surely be what that little runt would deserve, distracting him from what he should ultimately be focusing on. He should've been providing his undisclosed attention to the warbling between the Balkan states; he should've been reflecting on the inclusion of some new bureaucrat in Magical Germany who was redoubling the efforts to force 'dark creatures' out of the school systems! He should've been passing out decrees, rallying his people, or whatever he was supposed to be doing.

How sad, it wasn't even close to how his thoughts wandered these days. Too often he'd find himself browsing through a confidential report, too quickly lose his guise of concentration, and then swerve to the window behind him, staring out at the stars like a damned Romantic!

It was utterly unseemly. Not only of himself, but of that... that scent. That rich scent that fermented like grapes in the air, that scent that trailed after him like a lost puppy wherever he went, that scent that drove him mad with need.

These actions were not decorous, not proper, nor was it fair to his people, for a ruler such as himself to be doing such. And yet, despite these protestations that plodded around in the back of his head, he caught himself doing the very same thing this night without so much as a spare thought to the untouched papers on his desk.

It was an early Monday evening, roughly 11:21 pm, with a slight chill permeating the room- twelve degrees celsius. It was an especially dark night, he thought, even though he had no such basis for thinking that with any sense of rationality.

And, of course, ever faithful, was the scent that dogged his breaths.

That boy.

He'd have to find him, he knew, and yet he was struck dumbly with the question of how.

The scent was growing stronger. It was crazing him, making him think- dare he admit- strangely human things. Not to mention, feel, very human things.

Feelings he'd rather not admit. Feelings someone such as himself should not have the vaguest clue even existed. Feelings of need where such acute desire had never existed before, feelings of extreme impatience where before he would have waited dutifully for hundreds of years, feelings of other types that he was too prideful to admit. Even to himself.

These things, these thoughts and distractions, should've been entirely foreign to him. But they weren't, and that- that- is why he would have to wring that boy's pretty neck when he found him. Perhaps only figuratively but one can always dream.

First, though, the vampire would have to find him.

But where?

He could be anywhere by now, and the man would be damned if he decided to follow some scent trail like a dog.

That boy could be within the farthest corners of the world by now. Absolutely anywhere.

The man swallowed at the tightness in his throat, letting his hands course roughly through his hair and his back hunched almost imperceptibly.

Think; think!

If that boy could be from some distant plain, then why would he traverse all the way to Diagon Alley where the man had found him?

It is plausible he could be staying with relatives he had known yet, considering that he had been trailing completely alone in Knockturn Alley- almost certainly underage-, wouldn't they have gone with him?

The small village is nothing but shops and Inns for those travelling or as of yet displaced from their common residence, and only a small few actually decided to settle there.

The only worth that the shabby location has is to supply robes and school supplies, within the less shady portions of Diagon Alley, that is.

School supplies.

The vampire's head perked up, his elbows moseying back to their respective armrests.

A boy that young must still have a magical education. Right? He didn't look poor, nor was he homeless ruffian, surely he went to a school.

The most proximal school to Diagon Alley would be Hogwarts. The other ones, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, were, he supposed, entirely dismissible considering that the boy had a British accent and didn't have the burly Northern look to him.

Not from what he remembered. And he didn't forget anything. Especially about the boy.

His mind wandered, hands toying with the rings on his fingers and sliding against the chair, and he wondered quite seriously if that boy had a name to him. Maybe something like Adrian or Austin- common British boy names of this time period- yet he quickly dismissed them because such names sounded much too harsh for that soft face; he'd never quite liked 'A' names, either. He didn't much like Chris, too generic, or religious names either- like Seth or Donovan. Maybe a Cecil, that was a suitable moniker, or Elijah; Damian would suit his black hair. Vince, Hudson, Harvey or even Ha-

The vampire blinked, growling gutturally, and wondering why he had been thinking of such useless things.

He couldn't afford to waste his time like this; he had to find the boy and... and... well, he wasn't sure what yet, but he knew that once he was taken care of then things would go back to normal!

Hogwarts- the word repeated in his brain.

It was a small chance, yet the only lead he had.

Yet the wards around it, the wards around it were so strong there was no way he could possibly penetrate them without maiming himself. Perhaps fatally.

It was too risky and likely impossible, not to mention, the man didn't even fully know if the boy was there!

The boy would have to come out of those wards on his owns, assuming he was there.

How many months away until the school got out? There was no way he could wait so long.

At the thought he felt a deep, painful weight in his chest- yet another common, foreign sensation he had been feeling recently. He couldn't place what it was, yet avoided it as much as he possibly could.

The feeling manifested itself into anger, a feeling infinitely more comforting and familiar to him; how dare that- that boy do this to him. Make him this irrational and sappy being he no longer knew! How dare that damn boy reduce him into some sort of warbling mess, that could barely concentrate! Who would have the gall to do this to him except for some incompetent, idiotically brazen human?

How dare a mere human would make him want. Want for anything when he had everything and that human had nothing- absolutely nothing- compared to him.

He pulled himself together, breathing sharply through flared nostrils.

Hogwarts. That boy could be there, right now, breathing and sleeping or eating and doing homework. Just a few hundred miles away with only stone and wards keeping him from the man.

The only thing he remembered about the damned school was that students were almost banned from going to Hogsmeade a few years ago because-

The vampire jolted fully from his seat so fast as if to be nearly invisible.

That's it.

That's his chance-

He let out a warning growl, making five servants immediately enter his study, bowing lowly.

"Your Grace," the first one said, stepping forward and still bent low to the ground, "What is it that you require?"

"Get me all the information you can on Hogwarts, about when the students are allowed to visit Hogsmeade this year," he ordered, "It is imperative."

Five low bows and the servants skated out of the room.

A small chance.

Small, but there.

HPhpHpHPhpHP

(a/n) whooo another chapter down.

Reviews/ criticism appreciated!


	18. Chapter 18

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing, etc

HPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHPhpHP

The rest of the week passed by just as slowly and painfully as Harry had anticipated; his actions revolving around going to class, turning in a slew of substandard work, and then clocking in very early in the evening to finally go to sleep, ignoring Ron's protests about "one final game of Wizarding Chess".

Fifth year had finally started in what Professor McGonagall called, "the full swing of things", and as if a button had been pressed, every teacher had the simultaneous sentiment that the students were naturally ready for an exponentially heavier load of work.

It was not made better by the persistent pain and exhaustion that would start, like a closed capsule, burrowed at the back of the base of his skull and, would release upon consciousness and cloud his entire body in an aching haze.

Each day, in and out, his capacity to both hold up the glamours and a conversation was trickling by like water out of a strainer- leaving him, by the time he was finally allowed to drop into bed, bereft and practically half-dead.

He supposed his friends could see he was looking worse every day; sometimes they'd give him these long looks and, without asking, take his books away from him with the simple explanation, "Let me carry that for you."

At first, it was only Ron and Hermione, but now, Neville and Luna had taken apart in the game too, telling him wryly that: "Oh, it's so cold in here!" and following it up with, "Maybe you'd like a heating charm Harry?", that or Luna would blink at him and say, "Wrackspurts like stained glass. You should stay away from stained glass, Harry."

The boy would take it with barely a nod, and it would happen so often that he scarcely recognized when it did. He supposed that was the scariest thing for them: that he was not his regular stubborn self when he ought to be ripping his books back from their hands, and saying, "No thanks, I'm fine."

When the days passed, he'd cross it off in his head, imaging he was locked in his bedroom at Privet Drive and scratching little tick marks on the walls that would count off the days until he could leave.

All he had to do was make it the weekend, right?

That was what he kept telling himself that, somehow, by the weekend, everyone would get better. Everything would be okay. The pain would stop, the exhaustion would stop, and he could pretend to be normal again.

He didn't know how he knew it, but he did, and he could scarcely imagine the idea that it wouldn't stop.

When the pain stopped, then the changes would stop. The pounding in the bite on his neck would stop,_ the Scent_ would stop getting stronger and maybe even go away, and his new teeth- well, he didn't know what they looked like at the moment- wouldn't be ripping through his gums.

Even more than the pain, Harry thought that the changes were the most scary things to imagine. The pain was nothing but a mere side effect of him changing; the pounding in his bite signified his transformation, the new teeth were for- he gulped- for his recently acquired tastes, and_ the Scent_-

_The Scent_ was for-

He didn't know what it's purpose was yet. It wasn't a regular smell, it wasn't the smell of Aunt Petunia's pungent and disgustingly fruity perfume, because it wouldn't go away. And he wouldn't get used to it; it was not something that ever escaped his notice because it was as if every passing moment he was smelling it for the first time.

He could only hope that it would go away too.

All in all, the week was a slow, dull, and painful affair, and he almost couldn't believe the surreality of it when Friday afternoon passed. Part of him thought it would never happen.

Needless to say, he spent the latter part of the day half-dozing in the common room and engaging in a game of Exploding Snap with Ron.

He had stayed in the common room long past after everyone had left, tired of spending half the night staring at red drawn curtains and decided instead to look at the empty fireplace from his position on the couch cushions. Not necessarily because it was interesting to look at, yet more so because that's where his eyes rested.

Harry leaned forward, staring more deeply into the ash pit that didn't even have a stack of wood in it yet because Autumn had only just barely made its mark in the school year. He wondered if he would be able to get out of going to Hogsmeade tomorrow.

Part of him said that he could easily do it; he'd just make some sort of excuse about a detention or 'prior obligations' and, even if his friends thought he was lying, they'd realize he needed the rest and go without him.

He really could use the sleep.

_But_...

That was the other part of his head; the other side of him that began every sentence with "but", only existing just because a part of himself liked the feeling of being contrary.

Most of the time, it was a lingering voice that he barely recognized, yet at the moment it seemed especially strong.

_But_, he felt like he should go, for some reason, despite how tired he was. He couldn't even really tell himself why he had to or why it would be the better decision than having a cosy Saturday in his bed.

Besides, wouldn't Fred and George be pretty disappointed if he didn't show up? They've been meaning to talk to him for some time.

Something about going to Hogsmeade just seemed like the right choice to make, and so he did. He dozed in the common room for another thirty minutes, wavering in and out of consciousness, before slumping to the dorm and formally falling asleep- being awoken in the morning by Ron, who tugged him out of bed, and only taking the time to put on fresh robes and a pair of shoes before waddling unceremoniously outside.

He then met up with Hermione, Fred and George, and the five of them took off- chattering all the way about stopping at Zonko's, or how Honeydukes was obviously one of the many priorities, and how they couldn't miss out on a hot glass of butterbeer.

But first, they'd have to stop at a nice little diner- what Harry would later realize was Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop- and chat about super important business plans.

At that point, he had regretted going, yet the contrary part of him still maintained that something was special about going to Hogsmeade this Saturday.

And so the four of them bustled into the bright-pink, saccharin-sweet tea shop to take a quiet booth in the very back, which was unsurprisingly a semi-circular booth with a heart-shaped back. Everything, of course, was covered in frills and little doilies that, prior to then, he didn't know was possible or even ethical to make so 'ultra-girly', in Hermione's words.

Ron dropped his voice to a whisper when one of the waitresses strutted past, "Why are we here-"

The waitress spun back to them, fiddling with a number of pink pens and a small notepad, "What would everybody like?"

Hermione was the first to order, looking at the menu with a grimace, and saying, "Oh-La-La Lovely Lavender, please."

"I'll have the same thing," Ron said, followed by Fred and George who couldn't resist ordering 'Hot Cup of Love' with completely straight faces, and finally Harry who settled for 'Kissy Kamomile'.

As she walked away, Fred leaned in and said, "This is the only place where we can find some privacy-"

"Don't want anyone stealing our ideas," George finished, "Which are absolutely brilliant."

Hermione just rolled her eyes, leaning back into the seat, and Ron asked them about their so-called genius inventions. The two of them, of course, went into a long narrative about some Puking Pastilles or Fever Pills- or-

Either way, Harry wasn't really interested; the more his mind wandered off, and the more the bright pink of the tea shop imprinted itself on his cornea, the more uncomfortable he became.

At first he had thought it had something to do with the seating, that the leather seat was uncomfortable and coarse and that it was poking uncomfortably into his back. Then, when the tea arrived, he thought maybe it was the honey and sugar that was making him feel nauseous and achy.

He twist and arch his back, considering a combination of positions that would make him feel better or relieve the pressure that was building up in his bones.

As the topic moseyed back onto the shop they were planning on having, either in Hogsmeade or Diagon Alley, and Ron made a sarcastic remark of where they were going to get the money, Harry continued to feel worse.

Well, maybe it was because it was too warm in here, he thought, or maybe the smell of fat pastries were making him queasy.

He shouldn't have come here-

The contrary part of his mind denied that and, as suddenly as it did, the boy felt a pervading chill shoot up his spine. The unexpected chill almost made him jump up from his seat, but it was roundly followed with a fevered rush in his head, what he thought must be a vague chill, and a pounding in his neck that, for some reason, reminded him of that Night-

As if he had completely forgotten some crucial fact, Harry felt scenes and memories assault his eyes, washing out the glaring pink and replacing it with blackness-

_There was a warm hand resisting on the small of his back, goading him forward with an unrivalled gentleness and replacing the chill of the evening with a constant warmth._

_His eyes looked up, traced along that superior jawline and looked into yellow cast eyes; how strangely beautiful._

_And then- a brimming cruelty, a cruelty he was comfortable with-_

_An alley._

"Hey, what do you think-"

_He was pushed into an alley and the man had traced along his neck with a soft thumb, pushing; Harry felt his blood pulse frantically through his body, as if it were trying to escape._

_The moon glinted on exposed teeth-_

_Searing pain._

"Harry? Ha-arry?" Fred called out, and suddenly the pink returned, along with an arm waving in front of his face.

The boy blinked, confused and shivering, "Huh?"

"What do you think? Do you like the concept?"

He had no idea what they were talking about, yet nodded nonetheless, "Yeah, it sounds great."

His neck pounded so hard it felt like his whole body was moving with the force of it.

And just as suddenly as Fred turned to Hermione, the boy was struck was _The Scent_ just as quickly as the memories-

He sniffed the air, overwhelmed with the power of it, and with or without his own volition he immediately stood, "I'm, uh, I need to go to the bathroom."

He left before he could see their inquisitive looks, and spun out the door of the tea shop, scrambling like a madman when _The Scent_ became stronger.

He weaved through people, sometimes forcefully pulling apart large crowds, making them tumble over or give him some harsh looks, but he paid no attention to it, passing so many thin shops and gray stones and cobbled streets and crooked avenues he didn't know where he was.

But he knew where he was going.

The force of the pounding bite drummed through his neck and into his head, becoming a long, drawing and ricocheting drum beat that felt like it was going to split his body in half-

_Thump, thump, thump, thump._

Feet hit stone, then dirt, little tufts of grass and flowers, stone again-

_Thump, Thump, Thump-_

It was at once terribly painful and yet exciting, both exhausting and yet more invigorating than anything he had ever felt- or smelled- or heard- or tasted-

Sharp teeth ripped through gums and glamours, two long sharp points, and he kept bolting down the streets.

_The Scent, the Scent_ was just right around the corner...!

He felt something hook around his waist- an arm, maybe- and just as abruptly he was pulled into the claustrophobic space between two unidentified buildings, scratching and hissing and all at once a tangle of limbs that were his own and another's-

He opened his eyes to find himself blinking at a pair of yellow irises, a thin nose, pale lips and dark curly hair and as soon as he registered who it was, those lips were colliding into his own.

Hands explored skin, pinching, pressing, feeling, sliding and grasping so hard as to leave bruises, grasping everywhere and nowhere all at once until he wasn't sure whose hands were touching him and he could have sworn they were so close that they were a singular entity-

Still, it wasn't close enough.

_The Scent._

_The Scent._

This was the owner of _The Scent_.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

A/N

wooo,

alright

Reviews and criticism is appreciated very much!


	19. Chapter 19

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing; watch out for sexual themes, boys and girls! You've been warned.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

Harry's eyes fluttered open and then closed, his need for the other man outweighing his need to breathe, and when those lips pulled away from his- for a mere second- only then, had he allowed himself a ragged and strained gulp for air.

It was like he was drowning, that man's body covering his own, their proximity making both of them swelter under the heat, dripping with sweat and threads of saliva; yet those hands still grabbed for each other blindly, undeterred, pulling robes and shirts and pants and doing everything in their capacity to reach skin.

He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe and yet he liked it- liked the way their teeth nipped at each other's lips and gums and tongues, liked the way their nails scratched at each other and that, when he whined at a particularly harsh slash, the other man took care to gingerly rub at the sore skin.

And-Oh, Merlin- that taste, the sweetest taste on earth- the taste of their sweat mingling, of hot skin and stewing shoulder blades under lips, it made Harry groan.

The man broke away, leaving feathery kisses along the outer rim of his mouth- gently exploring, the boy arching his neck at the contact when those lips trailed over his neck and licked passionately at the bite-

-No.

"Stop..." Harry moaned, still blithely leaning into the man's advances yet trying to think through the haze of heat and love, "Wait, wait-"

The vampire stilled along his neck, feeling the pounding of blood right underneath the thin flesh, and those lips slowly retracted until the boy met yellow eyes for the second time.

They stared at each other for a long time, faces flushed and sweaty, an unbroken thread of saliva webbed between their chins, and only Harry's strained breathing filled the silence.

As the heat trickled out of the alley, the boy pushed away violently, writhing against the hands placed firmly along his waist, "This is wrong; this is so wrong!" his throat was a rasp, terrified green eyes looking up, "You- you're that man who... you..."

"Yes," the vampire said, making Harry shiver in equal parts pleasure and fear, "I bit you, if that's what you were wondering."

"Why are you here? How? What, I..." the boy paused, catching his breath and pushing his back against the opposite wall as far as he could, "I don't even know your name!"

"Auguste," he smirked, wiping the saliva from Harry's chin with his thumb and ignoring the flinch, "Like the emperor."

The boy struggled, trying but failing to detach those arms from him, and he couldn't tell whether it was the vampires' own strength that kept him pinned or his own secret unwillingness to run away from the elder, "This- you attacked me, you- _this_ isn't right. And you're, you're, a _man_- not a girl," he shuddered, "Let me go!"

"You're not going anywhere," he said calmly, gripping more firmly around the boy.

Harry tried to propel himself into the street, arching against strong arms, "Let- let me-"

He only clamped tighter, drawing the boy in even more and, whispering under his breath, "_Why I don't just snap your neck, I'll never know.._." and saying even louder, "I will tell you everything you want to know if you just stay still."

"I don't need to know anything, especially not from you!" the boy muttered in violent irritation.

At this, the man drew Harry into his chest, fully encircling those strong arms around the boy, soft mouth nibbling gingerly on his ear before he started to speak, "Go ahead, tell me that you're not curious. Tell me you don't feel it like I feel it," his voice was a lusty and private whisper, "Tell me you can't feel it- the closeness- that you can't feel my breath over your skin, that you can't feel my hands on your back, and that you can't smell it- that scent- and you can't taste it when your tongue grazes my own-"

Harry's breathing hitched as one hand slithered from his back and into his trousers, not even struggling to get through the boxers. It toyed with his hips, dipping in and out, slithering even more until it circled around his inner thigh- and suddenly, almost unexpectedly, started stroking up and down his- his shaft; a thumb pertly grazing over the tip.

"_Rien que de penser à toi m'émoustille_," the vampire whispered in his left ear; the boy having no clue what he was saying, yet the words sounding so aroused and sibilant he felt a wet stickiness already forming on the other man's hand.

Those hands toyed with the stickiness, drawing it over his entire length, coating him in until he started rocking to the touches.

As soon as he felt the final, hot surge of pleasure brewing in his gut, and he was certain he could repress it no longer, that hand retracted from out of his trousers, making the boy whine unintentionally, "Please."

"You will be a good boy and listen, yes?" the vampire asked.

Harry gave a brief, wavering nod.

"Yes, I bit you that night," the man grasped the boy even harder into his chest, waiting for the struggling to pass, "But you were- you can scarcely comprehend how good you smelled, it would not even pass through your human brain that you were so inconceivably desirable, and yet, so attainable- that night you walked into Knockturn, how could I resist such a delicious dish that was mere feet from me?"

Harry said nothing to this.

"You wouldn't stop teasing me with that rich, delicate scent," he said, "I was, understandably, angry- and when I saw those men handle what was mine..."

"No one owns me."

"I found you, I had a right to you," the man explained simply, "At least in my society- regardless, you drove me insane, and I was hungry and that was it."

Harry remained silent, feeling the vampire's heartbeat against his own chest.

"But something happened, something expected," he said further, "I presume you know what?"

The boy breathed the smell of dark, leafy canopies, "I lived."

"Precisely," there was a pause, "And that's why we're here."

"How did you find me?"

"Through deductive reasoning," he said, "I remembered you as young, with a British accent- what other reason would you have for being in Diagon Alley than going for school supplies, even if you did go looking in the wrong places? I presumed, quite simply, that you attended Hogwarts and then it was only a matter of catching you while you weren't under the protection of the wards."

The boy remained evermore silent, letting the man think his reasoning was right, "Who are you?"

The vampire blinked, until he realized that the boy meant what his personage was rather than a name, "I am a Lord of sorts, I suppose, much like the human notion of a King-" he continued at the boy's gasp, "But instead of ruling over land, I rule over the entire species," he breathed, "Now it is your turn."

"I'm Harry," the boy said, shouting at the man's look, "Harry! _Just_ Harry; I don't know, I go to school and, well, I learn, and I have friends and I'm normal."

Auguste quirked his eyebrows, "Alright, Just Harry, Just is an odd first name but I suppose-"

"No, no, no," he laughed despite the surreality of the situation, "My first name is Harry."

Silence ensued, until the boy spoke again, "What am I?"

"You are just like me," the elder man said.

A tremble, "You mean I'm-"

"Yes," a nod, "You are a vampire."

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

a/n

Well, well, well...

Hope you liked that chapter ;)

Notes:

1) Rien que de penser à toi m'émoustille, = 'Just thinking about you tantalizes me.' (very rough, not literal).

Reviews would be appreciated very berry much.


	20. Chapter 20

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

_"Yes," a nod, "You are a vampire."_

It was funny how those words hit him. It was funny how, sandwiched in between the wall and the other vampire, those words still shocked him.

He didn't even know why, but he supposed the laughter that seemed to swell up along with the terrible pit opening up in the middle of his chest was due to the irony of his shock. He had known it for a long time, known ever since he'd visited Flourish and Blotts- somewhere inside of himself he had always known. And yet, he was blinking in shock, blinking at the words he'd always known were there yet couldn't believe were said.

Maybe it was because he'd spent so long swallowing that statement from out of his throat and into the deepest recesses of himself; he'd internalized it for so long that actually hearing the words- especially from one other than himself- left him reeling. Or maybe it was because he hadn't wanted to believe, because he was spending the longest time trying to deny that he was anything other than normal; this train of thought, of course, had occurred long before even being bitten.

Harry felt oddly empty to have that piece of him, that piece that always screamed '_normal_!' at him, just gone.

At the moment, he couldn't tell whether it was a good thing or not, and in an effort to block out the thoughts and the sounds from the adjoining street, he burrowed himself into the elder man's chest; stifling his breath and his tears.

A hesitant hand patted his head, interlocking fingers into his hair and ruffling; Harry supposed he must be mad to be taking comfort in the one who started it all in the first place. But for some reason, he couldn't help but trust the elder, trust that he wouldn't be hurt by the other vampire.

How odd.

How very, very odd.

Stifling the burning in his eyes, the boy hiccuped, sucking in a trembling breath of air from the man's shirt, and the sound was followed by silence for a while, until the other said: "Shh, shh."

They stayed like that for a while, gently swaying, and while his body was comfortably on the ground and in another's arms, his head was lingering on the edge of a deadly precipice.

His ears perked at the sound of his name right out on the street, "Harry!", and he pulled away from the man, leaning his ear pointedly out of the alley.

"No time for Hide and Seek, Harold!"

Obviously Fred and George.

He pulled more away from Auguste, looking hesitantly up at him and down at the street where he could make out the sound of approaching footsteps, "I need to go, I'll..."

The man only stared at him with a daft look on his face, tugging more at the boy's shirt, "What are you talking about?"

Harry blinked, looking more neutrally at the other and detaching himself from the arms hanging limply over his waist and edging to the street, explaining it as if it were the most simple concept in the world: "My friends are looking for me, I don't want them to worry."

There was drawn silence, Auguste regarding him carefully and pausing as his mouth opened as if he was trying to say something exceedingly difficult for him, "What if you get hurt?"

Harry didn't stifle the dawning confusing from his face, "I'll be back soon, I swear," he said, "I can sneak out of Hogwarts tonight and we'll meet right back here-"

The vampire grabbed his wrist firmly, a possessive gleam in his eyes, "Are you mad or just insolent?"

"What?"

"Those are humans," he spat, growling.

Harry said nothing to that statement, "Listen, let's just meet back here and we'll work it out, okay?"

When the boy started tugging again, Auguste tightened, loosened his grip, and then retightened, the two looking at each other, until he loosened his hands again, "And you swear this to me?"

"Yes," Harry said, adding at the unsure look on the vampire's face, one that he was sure never passed over the man's expression, "I will be alright."

He let go, the boy poking his head into the street and looking at a pacing Hermione, tense Fred and George, as well as Ron, and when he was sure none of them were looking his direction, he stepped out into the street.

He wavered back and forth, wondering on how to approach them, until Hermione looked up from the cobble stone and blinked at him; making Harry wave at his friends when, one by one, they ran up to him.

Hermione was the first to make it to him, her strides long and purposeful, until, completely unexpectedly, there was a stinging, sharp pain on his right cheek.

It almost made his ears ring hollow, not able to decipher what the girl was screaming at him, until he realized with a perturbed blink that she had just slapped him.

"You... you... you're unbelievable, Potter!"

Harry could only stare at her, rubbing at his cheek, and being reminded clearly of once in third year when she hit Malfoy.

Fred and George quickly caught up, half jogging, with Ron trailing behind and wondering if he should say something.

The girl stared at him for a long while, chest heaving up and down with a strong effort for air, yet she only breathed through flared nostrils.

He swallowed, "When I said I was going to the bathroom," and he paused, wondering, yet quickly dismissing, the idea of telling them what the truth was, "There were two people snogging in the men's room at Puddifoot's; I went looking for a different one, is all."

"What on earth took you so long?"

The boy rubbed at the back of his neck, staring at the ground, "The bathroom I was going to use- well, me and the cashier got into a fight; he said I could only use it if I bought something, so... yeah."

The girl took a small step backwards, "Okay," she said, lips pursing and mouth moving with great effort, "I was wrong, it's just- you've been disappearing too much this year. I shouldn't have hit you."

Harry examined even more closely the cobbled stones underneath his feet, not wanting to hear yet again the explanation of what Grimmauld Place was like without him- Sirius ready to break down, from what'd he heard, and Mrs. Weasley just as likely to snap. Even Remus, the most cool-headed man he'd ever known, was caught pacing and nibbling at the edges of his nails. He already felt guilty enough, and it made him think that maybe he should've just told them where he was all along back in the Summer.

The guilt was not made better by hearing the mumbled apology from Hermione and the admission that she was "wrong", because he knew it was very hard for her to say that and because he was equally aware that the whole thing was his fault.

Fred stepped forward, clapping a burly hand on his shoulder, "Well, I suppose we should be heading back," he sighed dramatically, "And I was so looking forward to a hot butterbeer, my dear Harry."

"I guess it's all your fault," George added, fake-weeping into his own hands and shrugging wryly, "Harold, you always ruin everything."

He was thankful that the twins couldn't see his darkening expression, the frown and terrible shuddering of his chest; they were right. He was always messed things up- whether it was by pulling Begonias from the garden rather than weeds, or by making everyone worry about him.

He heard Vernon's voice ring in his head, '_Stupid boy!'_.

He mustered a fake smile, heaving his shoulders in fake laughter along with everybody else, and, starting to feel nauseous from what he thought was the sun, the five of them pooled back into Hogwarts only thirty minutes later.

When he got there, he played Exploding Snap with Ron, worked up a strained conversation with a still-cool Hermione, and worked on some essays in an effort to distract himself.

It was later that he slumped in the common room and to the bathroom, starting to brush his teeth that when he opened his mouth he noticed his canines-

The toothbrush clattered to the sink, toothpaste still frothing in his mouth even after he spat it out; at first it hadn't been noticeable, but when he looked more closely it seemed obvious-

His new teeth had grown in.

He swallowed thickly, grimacing at the taste of badly flavored mint, and examined the very sharp edges of his upper canines. It was with a shudder that he remembered talking and smiling with his friends- even without his glamour on at all- showing proudly off the new teeth.

The new teeth that were meant for-

That were meant for-

He felt queasy. He would never do that- never- not to another person. He'd rather starve.

They weren't that noticeable, his friends mustn't have noticed at all- or they would mention something to him. In fact, they were the same size as his last teeth, just as pronounced, yet clearly not of the same shape.

He picked up his toothbrush, calmly leaving the bathroom and slipping into the dorm, closing the curtains around his four poster bed.

It took awhile for all the others to step into bed and even longer than that for them to stop talking and fall asleep, but Harry was thankful for the time to process what had happened.

Soon after that, there was the sound of steady breathing and soft snores, except for Ron, who always snored loudly, and it was only then that he allowed himself to quietly sneak out of bed and down stairs, heading from there to the corridors with the Marauder's map in hand and stuffing himself through a secret painting passage.

As he shuffled through the dank tunnel to Hogsmeade, he started thinking.

Some part of him believed that none of it had actually occurred, that it was all in his head.

But why on earth should that mean it's not real?

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

a/n

Yep, this chap's a shorty. But most of them are, so yeah... I hope a lot of you caught the reference, hehe.

Criticism and reviews are loved and welcomed straight to my heart which will burst with joy upon viewing them! Thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, etc.


	21. Chapter 21

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

Lifting up a wooden slab that brushed just over his head, Harry peered out of the crack, examining the quiet, dusty little wooden floor.

He readjusted the hood over his head, it was only when he was entirely sure that he couldn't hear anything that he finally allowed himself to crawl out of the secret passage and into the silent Honeydukes' back room.

It was just as he had remembered it the last time he had been there in third year- with cardboard boxes strewn over the room and caked in a thick layer of dust, dank air permeating throughout the room. Probably, Harry supposed, because the small rectangular window on the left wall was never opened.

The boy leaned forward, taking delicate and paranoid steps that still managed to upset the rotted wood, and he tensed automatically whenever it produced a rather loud creak; he would feel much less vulnerable if he still had his invisibility cloak. Which was still with the Dursleys, if not destroyed already.

It made him shudder to think that he'd forgotten his things; every material possession that he had ever valued was in that trunk. He'd never been brave enough to sneak back into Vernon's home, anyways, so he supposed thinking about it was useless anyways.

And now, he was left without his cloak.

The boy gulped, fiddling with his robes and looking at the worn wood beneath his feet for only a moment before looking back up, stepping forward determinedly.

Nonetheless, he wasn't here to think about those things. Or a photo album, for that matter.

When he made it to the adjoining door that led out into the main candy aisles, he put his ear up to it, stifling the sound of breathing by sniffing through his nose and instantly, without even listening at all, he knew. There was no one at the shop.

He didn't know how, or why he'd had figured it out so suddenly, yet he just knew and that was all there was to it. And with that knowledge came new information that sent his head spinning when it all streamed into his consciousness at once: 11:44 pm and thirty-four, no, fifty-seven seconds; thirteen degrees celsius, with a cold wind beginning to blow along the East approximately one-hundred kilometers, three- maybe four- sleeping occupants in a flat just one acre away, one of which would serve as a suitable-

The boy gasped, pivoting backwards, and clutched at his head- wondering momentarily if there was an intruder in his own mind.

When the strange new sensation passed, he spun around, looking in all directions, yet the lot was silent all except for himself.

That was odd.

He decided to think about it later.

Harry opened the door and nimbly trailed through the shop, still cautious, and then out into the street where he allowed himself to be louder.

There was no one else he could see that was outside; it was very strange, yet he supposed that since the whole village was constructed because of the influx of students, that would make sense. Still, it was a tad eerie.

He rounded a few corners, lurking over the edges of buildings, and took rights which he later thought must've been wrong; there were instances he had niggling doubts about where he was going and, furthermore, what he was doing.

And yet, the only moments when he paused, an inscrutable look or hesitation on his face, was when he wasn't quite sure where he was going.

He knew he had to meet this man here, even though he was dangerous, even though his intentions could surely be very bad, even though he could only be using Harry; it wasn't like he really had a choice in the matter, or a choice in his own head.

The same head that denied any strong feelings for the vampire.

The boy paced, looking at alleys and passageways which were either too narrow or too wide or not the right kind of stone to be the one that he was in; other than that, they all looked the same.

He stifled the panic that blared off in his brain and pushed it to the back; repressing thoughts that, maybe, Auguste was waiting for him and disappointed he hasn't shown up, will assume Harry lied to him, and the two would never ever see each other again; or maybe, without Auguste, the boy would be open to attacks, like on that one night-

He exhaled slowly. No, none of that would happen.

He closed his eyes; at this rate, he wouldn't find anything either.

When he opened his eyes again, a few seconds later, he had been startled by two strong arms tugging around his waist, dragging him into his chest.

He thrashed, screaming, until the unknown attacker put his hand on Harry's mouth.

Oh no, no, no, no, no.

"Shush," the man said, "It's Auguste."

He stopped reacting violently, fists still clenched and wavering at his chest; he didn't speak, heavy breathing filling the silence.

The vampire rested his chin on the top of Harry's head, sniffing, and gripping even tighter around the boy's waist, "I almost thought you had run away, daft boy."

They stayed like that for many minutes, revelling in the sensation of being close to each other; at least Harry felt like that, he couldn't speak for the other man. But he could hope.

Auguste brought his lips to the boy's ear, "Let us leave this place."

Harry shivered, "To where?"

"To my palace."

Harry turned around to face the vampire, pushing against his chest, "You have a palace?"

He blinked, regarding the boy, "Well, of course; I am a ruler. Where else would I live?"

"I just didn't expect that," he nibbled on his inner lip, "How do we get there?"

"Like this," the man said, pulling a locket from out under his clothing and whispering something, until there was a rush of color and sound and then a few moments later, finally, Harry's eyes rushed to meet the ground.

The moment his feet hit tile, Harry's knees buckled despite the grip the other man had on him, and he felt nausea well up in his throat not only from the unexpected whirring motion, but also from particularly bad memories with Portkeys that he'd rather not repeat.

When the man let go of him, hoping he'd find his balance, the world only whirred even more quickly, almost making him topple over completely.

A stray hand patted on his back, pulling him forcefully into a standing position by tugging roughly at his collar.

When Harry's vision and nausea quelled, he was able to look more deliberately at the room; finding himself closely examining the rich reds and subtle oak accents of the floor, a lush carpet which expanded all over until it met with walls so thick with paint that it looked creamy and velvety to the touch. Defensive wooden shelves, what he thought must've been mahogany, lined the entirety of the far right wall, packed with various tomes that either looked very old or relatively new; the shelves shot straight up to a very, very tall ceiling.

The rest of the furniture were varying shades of dark brown, oaker woods; including two thick, cream arm chairs around a circular coffee table, a persian rug, and a tall desk cluttered with papers and misplaced quills.

The man, still tugging on his collar, plopped him in an armchair, "Sit, you are not to move until I return; do you understand?"

He nodded, sinking into the furniture, "Where are you going?"

"That is none of your concern," he said, "I will return shortly."

He left out the door and padded down the hall, and Harry sat obediently for only ten minutes before his curiosity about the room made him get up and start looking around.

It looked very rich and elegant, the whole room a little too dark and Gothic for Harry's taste; he would've preferred more and taller windows which would have really let the light in. He smiled wryly when he remembered the man was a vampire.

Taking very quiet steps, Harry was met with the desk and, leaning over, he soon found he was unable to _not_ touch anything; he started rifling through the papers, catching trace words of 'uprising' and 'confidential'. When he was done, he organized them so they looked much like they did before- undisturbed- and set his eyes on the attached drawers of the desk.

They were bare of any personal collections or photographs, only housing a few papers; not even a jotted note or a journal existed.

Harry leered even more over his surroundings, edging to the shelves and inching out very large tomes, not even for the curiosity of academic pursuit, yet more so for the childish interest of seeing just how many pages some of the bigger ones had.

It was a naturally quiet place; a big study, he supposed. If it were only the study, than just how grand was the rest of the palace?

He could scarcely imagine it; any room in Hogwarts would be hard pressed to look this grand, and it was probably pretty small compared to the rest of the castle, or palace, or Chateau- whatever this place was.

Itching to leave the room, Harry edged even closer to the door, turning the knob slowly and with a calculated deliberation, peaking out into a very wide and robust looking corridor that seemed to expand for miles.

The walls were a very warm tone that the boy couldn't make out in the lighting, lined with a trail of large, raucous oil paintings; the walls were as tall as towering arcades, near the top a lingering triforium and stained glass hooded with an overarching vaulted ceiling.

It was grand and magnificent, and the boy couldn't help moving out of the doorway, pacing along the marble tiling, and eyeing everything he could possibly see.

Halfway down the corridor, he noticed the vague whisperings and portraits that pointed at him suspiciously; he blinked at a very loud, old one, who was fingering his scraggly, long beard and eyeing him distastefully, "Boy," it said, lips raised in obvious contempt, "Just who are you?"

"I'm Harry," he blinked, stuttering, "Pleased to meet you."

"And your family name?"

The boy narrowed his eyes, wondering if he should say it, "Potter."

The elder man in the painting leaned back, examined him with oily black eyes and looked as if he were deep in thought. In only a moment, he leaned to the painting to the right of him, poking his head in the other portrait, "I don't recognize that surname, dear Gertrud, he is not of a proper lineage."

She snarled at him, "A thing like that, in the manor? Preposterous! Dare I say, our great-great-great grandchild actually let a creature such as this inside the castle walls?"

Harry opened and closed his mouth, wondering if he should say something, yet inched along through the hall instead, ignoring the couple.

The noise of the portraits grew louder and more distrustful of him until a younger portrait burst out, in all the fighting, "Intruder! Intruder in the castle!"

Harry quickened his pace past the portraits, yet more and more saw it fit to join in the roar, chanting, like members of a witch-hunt: "Intruder! Intruder!"

He spun the other direction and, panicked, starting bolting back to the study and then his head collided into chest armor, making it whir, and him falter backwards.

He stared up at ten separate figures, all decked in the same metal outfit, looking a lot like Medieval knights. They all pointed wands directly at his head and he gulped.

"Intruder, you are encroaching upon His Highness' territory! What do you have to say for yourself?"

Harry, confused and dizzy, stood, reactively putting his hands to his chest when they all took another step closer; "Halt! Move again and you will be killed!"

"Speak."

He quaked, a stream of liquid which he guessed was blood rolling down the side of his cheek; not daring to shuffle even slightly, "I'm not an intruder! I'm here with Auguste-"

A red jet of light collided with his chest, making the boy screech in pain and almost topple over if not for his fear of being killed; he hadn't moved an inch, what had he done?

Low growls filled his ears, "You dare speak His name! You _dare_! Treason!"

His heart thumped against his ribs, threatening to break them and tear from his own chest, "I swear, I'm not lying to you!"

Ten different wands pointed even more steady to his head and, without notice, the two guards on his left and right each took an arm and wrestled him through the corridor, the rest of them marching by at his sides.

He wriggled, hissing, and yet another jet of red light was sent barreling into his chest, making him roar in searing pain, "If you do not go along obediently and silently then your punishment will be exponentially worse!"

The boy felt ready to pass out, or to expel the contents of his stomach violently; the world was breaking out of its own axis and tumbling through space with reckless abandon.

The moment he had stumbled, not able to take the forceful and steady pace of the guards, two wands, one hovering around his right ear, the other on his left, were already brimming with red magic even before they even cast it.

Right then, eyes painfully wide and a reflected crimson, he saw a figure approach quickly through the corridor and-distantly- he heard a, "Stop!" followed by a feral sounding, "Let him go!"

The guards immediately dropped their wands and his arms without question, sending the earth plummeting downward through the universe and him straight to the ground.

He heard the metallic clink of metal-covered knees on marble, "But My Grace, this..."

The man sounded more angry than Harry could scarcely imagine, and he couldn't tell if the man was mad at him for leaving the study or the guards for handling him so roughly, "You are _not_ permitted to touch him; to lay a finger on him, do you understand?"

He heard a unanimous, "Yes, m'Lord."

"Leave," he had said and, right as the the sound of metal clinking died down and he was tugged up to his feet by a strong arm, the world washed away in a haze of black.

When he awoke again, it was buried under massive covers and satin, and the moment he breathed his mind was assaulted with information much like how it was only hours before; 4:30 am and fifty-five seconds, thirteen degrees celsius, hot wind caused by inversion pressure ready to pass over the basin-

It made him blink into consciousness, confused, and wondering where he was.

A steady breath wafted over his neck and chest, warmth along his back and entangled in his legs making him feel hot.

He rolled, pushing against the warmth and sat up, looking at the figure beside him who had likely been awake for some time, "Auguste?"

The man said nothing to this, regarding him balefully, and stepped off of the bed, turned away from him so Harry could only see the back of his head; "I presume you're not going to stay for long, that you are going back to your little school and human friends soon?"

Harry rubbed at his scalp, feeling a gauzy material over his head.

The man had taken the time to heal him.

"Are you mad?"

The vampire growled, folding his arms, "You disobeyed me when I strictly ordered you to sit; idiot boy, worthless ruffian," his whole body looked taut, "Why I am putting up with you, a damned human, is something I will never understand, to be forced to deal with such blatant incompetence and intemperance-"

Harry covered his ears, "I would never have come if I thought I'd be told I'm useless; and yes, I want to leave to my little school and little human friends."

The man snarled, "You are not to continue doing such grievous and unmistakably idiotic things again, lest you get yourself killed," he took a deep breath with his chest, pulling a locket over his head and swinging it like a pendulum over Harry's eyes, "If you are going to go back to that school, I would like for you to return here some evenings."

"You _would like_ for me to come here?" Harry asked, incredulous, "Really, you won't force me?

"It's clear that structure and orders do not work for you," Auguste said, as if articulating something very hard for him to admit, "So I would _enjoy_ it if you returned; It will not work in the Hogwarts' wards."

"What's in it for me?"

Auguste's lips twitched as if he were laughing at his own joke, "Firstly, I'd be able to further monitor that head wound of yours; secondly, you'd get company of your own kind, and, thirdly," he stressed, leaning in closer to the boy, "You should not try to kid yourself by denying our own attractions."

"I'm- I'm not into men," Harry said with a blush that betrayed his true feelings, scrunching the sheets with his hands, "And are you admitting that you like me?"

Auguste breathed through his nose, giving him a lingering look that made the boy shudder, "Harry, isn't it obvious that there is something which connects the both of us, which transcends physical boundaries?"

The boy said nothing.

"Isn't it obvious, can't you feel it- the threads that are attaching two kindred souls?" Auguste mumbled, visibly frowning at the nauseatingly romantic quality of his words, "Somehow, someway, we are bonded to each other."

Harry breathed, saying nothing for the moment, "I should go now."

Auguste nodded, "The phrase is Soif," the man said, "Stress the S, like a hiss; hold it tightly and do not take the necklace off."

Harry nodded, "I'll see you soon," he mumbled, before, grasping tightly the locket around his neck, said, "Soif."

Appearing back at Hogsmeade, he sneaked into the still-closed Honeydukes and through the secret passage, back into Hogwarts and into his own dorm room to sleep before classes started.

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Notes:

1) Soif: Thirst (in French), pronounced Sw-off

Whoa this was pretty long for me, hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. I would love your wondrous reviews; thanks to everyone whose followed, favorited, etc.


	22. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing, HARRY'S AN ANGST MACHINE

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Days had passed. Five days, to be exact. Five days had passed and still Harry hadn't gone back to see Auguste. One hundred and twenty hours.

Five days of seeing nothing but the same castle grounds, walls, and windows he was long familiar with and never the other one he knew of. Five days of classes and friends and professors, five days without robust portraits, palace guards and Auguste.

He felt much more different than he felt all those nights ago, and whenever he thought about it had always surprised him it was only last Saturday night. That's all it was that had separated him from the other man, five days, and it made all the difference.

The ache and the exhaustion was coming back, streaming from the base of his neck to every nerve, tendon, muscle, and fibre. He could feel it, the pain pivoting through him, and it was more than just the aches but the persistent loneliness-

A loneliness that, even surrounded by all his friends and fellow Gryffindors, was always there. There was a piece of himself missing, another half that was yet to found. A hole in his very being that he tried to fill with routine, class, and Hogwarts, which before had always worked, yet for some reason, not now.

He was changing. He was a stranger in his very own skin.

In those long, withdrawn moments he'd spend in class, whether it be in Potions, or Transfiguration, or even the hated DADA, he'd find himself in the perpetual haze of vague sadness, apathy, and physical pain. And at those times, he'd allow himself pull the locket out from under his robes and graze the cold metal with his thumb.

It always made him feel a little bit better, a little more alert. And he didn't know why.

Then, when he was able to finally think more clearly than he could only minutes before, he'd promptly stuff the locket back under his heavy set of robes, and redden in shame. He shouldn't be thinking about that man, Auguste; he shouldn't ever see him again.

It was a miracle that he was able to leave the palace last time, but surely the locket was just a trap, a trap that was supposed to make him trust the vampire.

The Dursleys' had done much the same thing when he was younger; after a particularly bad day, Vernon would lead him out of his cupboard- more soft and affectionate than ever- and give him a piece of bread, and Harry would almost believe that the man loved him, and then, right then, when the man would smile at him and he'd give a wide smile back- _that_ was when Vernon would shove him back in the cupboard. Those moments were always more painful than a punch, or a kick, or even a sneer; he'd make sure something like that never happened again.

Vernon did that to Harry because he was stuck with him, yet the boy knew that Auguste would do that to him for much, much darker purposes. With Vernon he'd always known what was coming, yet with the vampire, it was a mystery, and surely he'd have the capability to do a lot worse.

The boy didn't know what idiotic whim entered his head when he actually went back that night, went back because he trusted this man who he didn't even know; a man who he had encountered only three times. Not to mention, two of those times, he'd been seriously injured.

If he could, he would never see that vampire again.

He ignored the overwhelming pang in his chest at the thought.

Having any sort of relation with someone like that- someone with that much power and who was a dark creature did not bode well.

Harry rubbed at his neck, he supposed he was also a dark creature, too, but he wasn't going to act on any sort of blood lust, at very least. Never. Nor was he going to associate with anyone that did. Simple as that.

But...

Was the man really so sure Harry would return that he gave him the free will to both leave and come back? So certain of the inevitability that, despite his freedom, the boy would find it within himself to return?

He'd given Harry this locket. He'd given him the power to leave which, even when Vernon was acting very nicely, was never an option that he'd had before. Auguste was a very calculated, paranoid and, not to mention, controlling man, would he really take that sort of risk if he wanted to toy with Harry's emotions that much?

This was how the boy's thoughts fluctuated each day, at one moment being entirely certain of himself yet at another moment questioning the veracity of his beliefs; it was dizzying and confusing. Did he trust the man or not? He was never quite sure.

It would be the safest route not to trust the vampire, and yet that option made him physically sick. He didn't know how but it was like when he was with that man, he almost felt okay. And when he was away, the aches came back.

Harry was continually shifting his priorities from safety to comfort and he wondered if, just maybe, he could visit briefly with the man and nothing would happen.

Yet he knew if he did, the more he went, the more likely it was that each time he'd be captured, or trapped, or used in ways he'd rather not think about.

Each evening he presented himself with a question, pulling the locket from out of his robes and watching the brass hinges gleam in fused light: Was it worth the risk?

Then, each evening, he'd shudder, dropping the locket back to his chest yet never moving or even thinking of taking it off, crawling in bed and trying to ignore the ache in his bones by asking inane questions like:

How many hours had it been since he'd touched the man's skin?

Or, what was the last thing he said to him?

It made him grimace and swallow thickly, trying to stifle such thoughts yet finding himself unable to.

He couldn't risk it. He couldn't see that vampire again.

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Five days. Five completely infuriating days. Five days with an innumerable amount of quills broken, five times the regular amount of pacing and loathable anticipation for the same event that continued to _not_ happen.

Five days of sitting in the same desk, tapping fingers on the dark wood and waiting for that familiar _pop_; but nothing.

That boy hadn't come back.

That damn boy.

Wasn't he feeling the same effects as the man? Considering how young he was, the effects would be even more pronounced and yet, the boy evaded him! Like it was nothing more than getting rid of a pesky fly!

Incorrigible brat.

The vampire took a deep breath; he'd return. It was inevitable. The effects of whatever bond they had would necessitate close physical contact in regular intervals, as well as emotional proximity.

How unfortunate, the vampire had never planned to grow close to anybody. It horrified him to think that his well being was directly reliant on another individual.

And his whole kingdom, if the boy was the so-called _Kindling_.

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On the sixth day, Harry perhaps felt the most remote he'd ever felt in his life. And he couldn't tell why.

The only comparable times in his life were during the darkest, longest stretch of hours in his cupboard, at night when it was pitch black and dusty and he couldn't fall asleep in the cramped space. All he could hear was the sound of scuttling in the walls which he supposed were spiders or rats.

In Hogwarts, he had never felt this way, even in second year and mildly at the very beginning of this year-fifth year- when he had been outcasted by everyone except for his friends.

Yet now, there was an unbridgeable gap between him and everyone else, and he found it scarcely possible to make it through the day if not for the fact that he didn't have to talk to anyone during class.

He was distant from even himself; regions of his mind felt tired and stretched like a small square of butter over toast.

He was an empty shell.

He had nothing to offer anymore, not to himself, or anyone.

The day passed in a distant haze, colors seeming more dull than he had remembered them before, people he had known turning into unrecognizable blurs.

When he finally allowed himself to drop off into bed, pulling the curtains around him and either ignoring or not realizing the hushed whispers that started right as he left the common room, he pulled the locket into his hands.

He examined the hinges and the cold metal like he had often done; for the first time, he pushed on the side opposite of the hinges, watching it open with a soft, metallic _clink_. He blinked stupidly, he had not thought of that before.

The inside was barren of small pictures or notes and, dissatisfied, Harry almost closed it again until he noticed faded letters.

_Cecile Augustus Beliveau_

_Beloved Mother_

_1671-1980_

He swallowed the thick lump forming in his throat. That was a year before his mum died.

The engraved letters were faded and hard to make out, it was clear that the locket was old and someone had probably often stroked the words for comfort.

Her middle name- _Augustus_- it was...

Harry suddenly remembered something.

_"Auguste," the man had said, "Like the emperor._"

This was Auguste's mum.

The boy regarded the letters more reverently and sadly; why on earth would the man entrust him with something like this? Something this special?

If Harry still had his mum's photo album, he'd never hand it over to anybody. Unless...

Unless that person meant something to him.

Why hand this over to someone you were only going to hurt?

The boy thought for a long while, waiting impatiently for all of his dorm mates to go to bed, before he rose from his own and skated through the halls. Evading, somehow, both Filch and his damned cat just in time to make it to the portrait.

He had made his decision.

He needed to see Auguste.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP


	23. Chapter 23

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing, SEXUAL THEEEEMES

wow almost 300 followers! I'm so happy; thanks to everyone who has read, followed, favorited, etc. Reviews are very much appreciated

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

Harry clasped the cold brass tightly in his hands, staving off the late evening chill by pulling his robes tighter over himself- approximately twelve degrees Celsius, a cold wind was passing over the basin, as his mind liked to tell himself.

He breathed, feeling the rusticated edges of the hinges, and listening to the tiny mechanisms creak and groan under the weight of his thumb.

He had no idea what he'd meet when he went back there- back to Auguste- but he knew that, shivering like mad in the dead cold of Hogsmeade and aching like hell, it must be better than whatever he was feeling right now.

He didn't know if he was crazy or, somehow, staring up at the sky like looking into an infinite blank canvas, he was meant to find the words on the inside of the locket.

Either way, it was time to go.

One, two, three, "_Soif_."

Instantly he recognized the familiar whirling, the dizziness and terrible nausea that went hand in hand with the blurring and narrow squeezing; all of which he was, unfortunately, accustomed to.

The place on the other side of the world he was heading to opened up like a big, black massive pit- wafting up with the most recognizable of reds he had ever known- before he popped into the unidentified room and toppled on the floor from a foot up in the air.

When he opened his eyes again, only a moment later, it was when the back of his collar was being tugged forcefully upwards, sending him sprawling ineffectively the other direction, only to be pulled right back.

"_You_," a terrible growl that made him shudder, "_You are late_."

Oh, Merlin.

The man was angry with him.

A part of his mind screamed at him, hearing another growl in his ear; _run. Run before you're trapped forever, he's could do anything to you-_

This was it, Harry was sure. The life he had known was over and now he was trapped, the man was going to do _unspeakable_ things to him-

He couldn't make himself move, staring ahead at the cream wall closest to him; the man was breathing on his neck from right behind him.

He could feel the man pausing, the briefest flicker of hesitation in his breathing, and that was right when his strong hand pulled on his collar again, making the boy collide into the man's chest.

Lithely and more gently than Harry could have expected, those arms wrapped around his own torso. It took him a moment to realize the constant ache which had been plaguing him was ebbing away and, against all belief, the loneliness was dissipating like grains of sand out of loose hands.

An irritated huff, "Idiot."

Harry chuckled, fingering the locket still under his thumb's grip, "Yeah."

They stayed like that for a while and, as the minutes passed on, they sunk to the plush carpet with Harry stuck in the awkward position of resting on the man's lap and placing his head against the man's chest. He didn't know if he really cared or not, especially when Auguste's casually draped arms started meticulously rubbing his back.

The elder vampire traced the boy's hairline with his own eyes, "This relationship that we have..."

Harry cringed at the word, "I wouldn't call it that."

Auguste shifted slightly, "The denotation of relationship is the dynamic between two or more individuals with an interpersonal or even a fleeting interaction between each other," he started again, more coolly, "In this case, and in the way that you personally define the term, I would say, yes, we do have a relationship. That you cannot deny."

Harry remained quiet, reddening silently and burrowing himself even more firmly into the vampire's tailored clothing.

"As I was stating; this relationship that we have," he stressed, "This relationship we have, is, certainly, undeniably- I suppose- not normal."

"What is it, then?"

Auguste switched from stroking Harry's back to lightly curling the boy's hair, taking in a nasally breath and admitting through gritted teeth, "I don't know," he said, adding quickly, "But it is to my understanding that what we do have goes deeper than a personal connection; you remember what I said the last time you were here?"

Harry remembered quite clearly, perhaps more clearly than he would've wanted-

_"Harry, isn't it obvious that there is something which connects the both of us, which transcends physical boundaries?"_

_"Somehow, someway, we are bonded to each other."_

He didn't like that word- _bonded_. It skeeved him out, "I don't even know who you are."

Auguste gave him a lingering look, pausing as if wondering whether or not he should say something, "If it's any consolation to you, then maybe it'd be best if I admitted that there's not anyone I know more than you."

At that admission, Harry grasped more tightly into the man, giving him a strong hug as humanly strong as possible, "I know the feeling."

He himself had been very much acquainted with knowing a broom cupboard more than an actual person.

Auguste patted him, casually shifting him back into the position they were in before, "I don't need your pity, Harry."

"More like empathy," the boy muttered to himself, not realizing that the vampire had heard and given him a particularly suspicious look. The man decided he'd tuck that information away for later.

Harry fingered the locket, feeling the brass chain links underneath his hands, and in the smallest whisper, he said, "Auguste, I can't possibly keep this."

When he heard no reply, the boy turned up to watch, watching the man's eyes narrow.

"I know what it says, inside, I mean," He looked down at the locket more reverently than before, "It's too much, it's too precious."

Auguste yet again said nothing, diverting the boy's attempts to hand him back the locket by brusquely slashing it away and finally, when Harry was unattaching it from his neck, whopping the boy's hands away and reclinking it.

At that point, seeing the man's growing irritation, he decided to keep it. For now.

They stayed like that for another hour, feeling like one solitary being, and Harry realized he felt more comfortable with the ensuing silence then he'd had with anyone ever before. It was unnerving.

It was later that Auguste had lifted himself off of the carpet, rousing the boy from half-consciousness and tugging him back up by the collar- something Harry was infinitely irritated by. He was then slinging one arm across his waist when they were both off of the floor.

"Would you like to see the rest of the castle?" the man asked.

His head perked up at the thought and he nodded eagerly, "Is anyone going to- to freak out? Like last time with the guards and everything?"

"No," he said, face darkening, "It will be fine. They will treat you with the proper deference that you deserve, being near my side."

Harry nodded, allowing himself to be led through broad corridors that stretched over his head just as tall and as infinitely as he had remembered, zipping past him for what seemed like miles more than his feet could possibly walk.

He wondered how Auguste could manage to navigate the halls, if he ever, embarrassed enough, had to ask a house elf or a servant or something like that, for directions. Harry certainly would.

Who could have so many rooms and figure out what to do with them? Just how many offices did "His Majesty" have?

Sure enough, Auguste had introduced him to rich, splendorous receiving rooms, one very broad ballroom, and a dining area with a table that was so long Harry knew without his glasses he wouldn't be able to make out the plush chair clear on the other side of the table. The dining room branched off into other, smaller 'cubiculi' as Auguste called them, and the man led him back through the corridors again- showing a private, more personal dining room, living room dotted with more tapestries and cozy chaises than Harry could count, dazzling offices and cabinet rooms, a kitchen (which, not surprisingly, made Harry wonder why there'd need to be one for a vampire), and many other off-shooting rooms. More notably, he'd been taken down to the cellars.

Through the experience in the humid room he learned that Auguste very much liked his wines, pointing out to obscure French ones like- oh, what was it?- a _savin-yon blanck_? He then went on into some long, rambling lecture about how important it was to use manganese-rich soil, with only a little bit of nitrogen and a dash of zinc, and how '_one must make the grapes suffer_' and '_grapes that don't swelter under the heat of the French sun, grapes that are soaked to the marrow, are weak- and they produce weak wine not worthy under any jurisdiction to be called wine in the first plac_e'.

Harry wasn't really listening, yet was embarrassed to note that anytime the wavering, soft French notes hovered over the brink of Augustes' mouth, he would get a strong jolt of pleasure shooting straight to his crotch.

The man, thankfully enough, had not yet noticed, until he'd given the boy a half-lidded glance and said some saying that Harry didn't know- "_La vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin,_"- and made the boy shiver visibly.

At that, the man instantly recognized his lust, and chose to act on it.

The two leaned into each other after that, Auguste touching his cheek and tracing kisses along his jawline, the man pushing him up against some wine cabinet or another and started murmuring the names of more wines into his ears, "_Chennin Blanc_,"- a playful lick- "_Riesling_,"- a nip along his neck-, "_Pinot Blanc_."

Harry would, reddening in a mixture of pure pleasure and the deepest of shame, try in vain to hold back a throaty groan.

The room was damp and very dark, he could scarcely make out where he began and Auguste ended, their figures like two soft palettes brushing against each other; sometimes the red glare of a wine or a brief flicker of light outlining their forms that were otherwise indistinct.

He wouldn't admit it, but he loved the humidity of it, much like how it had been with the two of them stuffed in the corner of the alley, forced against each other.

Harry rocked into the man, letting one moan froth out of his throat- the sound guttural and deeply pleasured.

Auguste brushed the collar of the boy's robe off of his shoulder, unlatching the tie and letting it drape off of his body and onto the ground; hasty, dominant hands pulling his sweater over his head, not even fumbling with the wool, eagerly rushing to the tie, and then buttons.

One by one, their tongues lashing against each other, battling or dancing or doing something that Harry concluded was terribly confusing, the man unbuttoned his shirt, sliding a coarse hand over his chest, playfully caressing his nipples and making him emit another breathy moan. And soon those lips would let go of his own-saliva dotting his face and currently puffy lips- they would stroke over his collarbone and a tongue would latch over one of his nipples much like how his hands did, ringing around the edges and undoing more buttons.

Finally, the buttons were done, and Auguste let the shirt gather to the ground much like how his robes did. The two worked to the gritty concrete, Harry shoved against his clothes dotting the floor; the man worked lower- admiring the one, big silvery button restraining the boy's aching erection under his slacks.

The man toyed with it, unable to contain his excitement, and quickly unlatched it, dropping Harry's trousers down to his knees. He eyed the plaid boxers, sliding lower down Harry who was spread out on the ground, and nipped at them with his teeth.

Sensually, Auguste slid the boxers off with his teeth, watching as the boy's length sprung out in the humid air, so hard that he could've sworn it was pulsating.

How delicious.

The man stroked at it with the back of his hand, watching Harry writhe in delight and whimper with need. He positioned his mouth directly above the head, letting a small, delicate string of saliva drip from his tongue and pool onto the boy's length.

Harry dug his fingers onto the concrete, wailing, "_A-Auguste, please._"

A small drop tilted over the edge of his head, drizzling down the sides and making him whimper at the barest touch.

The pink tongue flickered like a devilish snake, sneaking so close yet never touching him, teasing and nipping and much too playful for Harry's liking.

"_Please-_"

As soon as he started saying this, body preparing for yet another wracking groan, the door to the wine cellar rebounded open, a temperate voice exclaiming, "My Grace-"

Harry covered his parts with the clothing scattered on the ground immediately at the sound of the voice.

Auguste, on the other hand, gave out a long, drawling growl that Harry had never heard before; it was a very angry, instinctual sound that sent the boy's teeth on edge.

The voice suddenly stopped, the man- likely a servant, judging by what he was wearing- shielded his eyes and bent low to the ruddy concrete, "My Lord, I ask for your deepest, deepest apologies, I never meant to-"

Far from waving the servant away, the man's normally yellow cast eyes turned a metallic, familiar shade of oxidized blood. He closed in on Harry, wrapping protective arms around the boy's back and hoisting him upward, making sure to keep as much of his body possible covered from the eyes of the servant.

"_Get out_."

Harry flinched at the voice, thinking for a moment that the man was talking about the boy himself.

He cowered lower, "Mi'Lord, I would not insist it if it were not of utmost importance-"

A cold, calculating hiss, "What?"

"Attacks," the servant said simply, "Along the East barr-"

"Quiet."

The man huffed silently, unmoving for a whole minute; Harry then whispered in his ear, "It's alright, I'll just get dressed and go," there was a pregnant pause, adding, "I will be back tomorrow night, really. I promise."

Auguste looked at him, eyes still that muddy red-brown color, "You are certain? And you have the-"

"Yes, I have the locket," Harry said, pointing to the warm metal against his chest.

"Tomorrow night, then," a quick nod, and the man couldn't help but start dressing the boy until Harry started shoving away and putting on his own things.

The King exited out of the room, beckoning the servant with the twitch of a hand and coolly asking for the details, before Harry couldn't hear anything else.

The boy wondered what it was about, pulling on his shirt, buttoning quickly and inaccurately, and finally pulling on his robe until, finally, his grasped the locket in his hands as tightly as he could and said, "_Soif_."

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(A/N)

ohohoho the sexual tension

hoped you guys liked the chapter.

Notes:

-_La vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin: _"life is too short for bad wine"

If you're going to review I have a few questions for ye:

1. On a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being the worst, 10 being very very good), how much do you like the story?

2. On a scale of 1 to 10 (1 being the worst, 10 being very very good), how good of an author do you think I am?

3. What do you think is the weakest point of my writing, the story, the plot, etc? What do you think is the best?

You don't have to answer all of those, but I'd love to know. Haha.


	24. Chapter 24

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warning: swearing

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

Two, perhaps three- that's how many times the dark creature had entered and left the school.

Dumbledore leaned back in his desk, intermittently stroking long, wrinkled fingers through his beard and adjusting his half-moon glasses higher over the bridge of his nose.

"Fawkes," he started, the bird giving him an inquisitive look, "What do you think of this?"

The bird only gave a half-hearted, confused chirp, and Dumbledore was left again to his own devices.

Just _how_? How could something like that transverse the wards so casually? No students had been attacked yet- not under his watch- and yet it still likely presented a very large threat. He just didn't know what yet.

The old man leaned back into his armchair, watching intently the glass orb that sat in the center of the mahogany that gleamed a bright red. It told him that the creature had just come back into the school.

Just what was it doing? Was it working for Voldemort and attempting to allow him passage into the school? Such a thought was- he didn't care to admit to himself- utterly terrifying.

And the question remained- how? The thought was a heavy, calcified weight that sat in the base of his head; how could a dark creature make it's way into the school, so simply? What secret- what loophole- was it using to get through the wards?

Dumbledore lifted himself to his feet, choosing instead to shake off the terrible feeling in his chest by pacing through his office; his actions mustn't be too preemptive, the consequences of that were innumerable.

However, if he didn't take action soon and precisely then the students would become too comfortable. The students had waited long enough without seeing any direct effect to their own, and they were already drifting back to their regular recklessness.

It made the situation much more delicate.

He had to choke out the threat as soon as he possibly could, as carefully as he possibly could, and yet caution and hastiness were not two factors that often coincided.

He was attracted yet again to the gleam of the orb on his desk, watching it brighten like an ominous red sunrise.

"Fawkes," he said, startling the bird with the gravity of his voice, "I need you to call all of the teachers into my office, aside from, of course, Professor Umbridge."

He chirped in reply, disappearing in a blur of fire and smoke, and Dumbledore leaned against the surface of his desk for several minutes until the professors started appearing one by one from the fireplace.

When all of them had entered, the green haze cast by the fireplace vanished, and the flames turned their familiar bright red.

Snape was the first to speak, giving him a silently displeased look, "What is it, Headmaster?"

Dumbledore inhaled slowly, shifting, "The dark creature has been entering and disappearing from the school-"

"What? How many times?" McGonagall spoke.

"Two, perhaps three."

"And what of the prefects? How are they safe?"

Dumbledore gave her a long look, "It leaves late in the evening, after all the prefects have gone to bed; I would even theorize it does this strategically so no one can catch it- whatever it is-"

Sprout fiddled nervously with her hands, "What is it doing? Where is it?"

"We have no way of knowing; there's no precise mechanism that could lead us to the creature, it's much like how the ministry's trace operates over underage wizards because, in large populations, there's no way to tell who was casting magic, and in this case, there's no way to tell where it is exactly or even what it's doing."

Flitwick piped in, his voice hopeful, "There have been no attacks, Headmaster, how can we even conclude that it's dangerous-"

Dumbledore sagged, "There is no other conclusion we can make on its behalf; could something harmless, with no strong intent to enter the school, really bypass the wards?"

"We've already strengthened the wards, they're-"

Snape snapped at the smaller professor, glowering down at him, "Yes, well they don't appear to be working too well, do they?"

"Severus," the elder man warned, making the potions' professor step down hesitantly, and then addressing the entire room, "Besides, there is only one option we have at the moment."

Nobody said anything to this.

"This castle will be put on strict night watch, but we must- I repeat, _must_- be careful not to be too noticeable, otherwise it may take note and act accordingly or worse, lash out. This is the best chance we have to capture the creature."

"And what does this entail?" Snape questioned.

"Everyone takes turns staying up and watching the corridors; shifts, I suppose you'd call them," Dumbledore said, running fingers through his beard, "I will alert the Order and they will help too."

"And the ministry?"

"They shouldn't know that the situation has gotten to such a degree, elsewise they may further their own idea that the school is unfit to protect its' students; be cautious of Professor Umbridge, in other words."

There was a collective nod around the room, the professors tiredly rubbing at their faces.

Dumbledore looked over them, Fawkes hopping onto his shoulder and butting against the side of his head, "Remember- we don't know its intent or how it's entering the school, much less how much of a danger it presents- this situation must be engaged with mindfulness."

The professors soon disappeared back to their respective quarters, leaving the bird and the Headmaster alone again.

The orb on his desk still gleamed that terrible red, making him take a silent, shuddering breath of air; he'd do what he could to rid the school of the threat. No matter what it would take, no matter what the means were.

If that included taking his supply of Aurors away from Order duties, he supposed it would have to be a temporary sacrifice until he could find the creature.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

A/N

neeee, short chapter. Ah well.


	25. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing

(A/N) Wow... 300 followers! That's amazing! Thank you everybody.

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Harry found himself unable to fall back asleep after he had returned, instead opting to lie in the dormitory and stare aimlessly up at the stone wall above his four-poster bed. He sure was that, come morning time, he'd be appropriately exhausted and the embarrassment would've taken its time to fully sink in.

Embarrassment about, well, about actions he'd rather _not_ have participated in, he realized a full hour after it had happened. At the time he'd been rather cool-headed about it but now, sheathed in darkness and only having the sound of snoring from the other beds greeting him, he'd had a while to think about it.

He felt like a melting pot with a number of different feelings coming to him- it was a strange and rather unpleasant amalgam of shame, confusion, regret, and a vague hangover of lustiness that he absolutely refused to "take care of", even though he did admittedly have the time and, not admittedly, a large part of himself asked why it would matter.

Harry curled his arms around his own waist, squeezing into his own sides with a reddening face; he'd acted like a cheap whore- a few choice words that he couldn't help but imagine his uncle saying to him. It's true that maybe he had been manipulated, perhaps just slightly, but still it was with a guy.

And he didn't like guys, he liked girls! Sweet Merlin, he wasn't- at least he didn't think of himself as, well, gay.

He liked girls, girls, girls! Hadn't Ron and him been talking about how Hermione's skin looked nice a while back? Well, not Harry himself, since that girl was like a sister to him, afterall.

Even more than that, he'd had a crush on Cho once. Cho was most definitely a girl. He never thought about her beyond a kiss, but _still_!

The boy nibbled on his lower lip- maybe it was just this one man. Just this once. He only felt an attraction to one man, and one man didn't constitute a person's whole sexual basis for the rest of their lives!

He stared up at the imposing, rusticated stone walls a few feet above his head, as if to ask them for answers.

It's not as if being gay was particularly bad, but it was definitely something that he couldn't see himself as; not really. Not at all.

His mind was quelled for only a few moments before leaping back into action and accusing him, as per usual, for what he had done wrong. More specifically, what he had let Auguste do to him.

His face grew an even deeper shade of red, making him dig his palms into his eyes squeezed shut- trying, in vain, to get rid of the images. And even worse than that was the memory of the servant walking in on them- on him- in that position!

The embarrassment grew unbearably stifling, making him wish that the floor would swallow him up, or he could just get some damned sleep so he wouldn't have to think about it any longer.

This, unfortunately, was not the case and he was confined to wallow in self pity for the whole night, unmoving aside from the brief flits of turning over to find the elusive side that could get him to sleep.

He would quickly learn there was no such side, and that soon it would be more than just embarrassing thoughts keeping him up at night.

In the morning, he was awoken from a semi-unconscious, wavering-on-dreamy phase by Ron, who saw it fit to tear open the curtains surrounding his bed and shove his shoulder, shouting, "Breakfast is almost over! We're gonna be late, mate!"

That made Harry lift his head, giving the redhead a gloomy look.

Ron only gave him a nervous chuckle, "You look horrible."

"Thanks," he had grumbled, getting up and sifting through robes he wanted to wear.

He threw another glare at the other boy when Ron only continued to give him an inquisitive look, "Did you really fall asleep in those?"

Harry remembered with a start that he'd never changed out of his school robes, "Uh..."

"You left the dorm last night, didn't you?" Ron questioned, his words followed with a terse silence and a terrible feeling in Harry's gut, "Blimey! Without me? You could'a gotten me up!"

Ron inspected him more closely, arms crossed, "Looks like you got caught in a tornado."

Harry looked back down at his shirt that was missing buttons and with others that were misplaced- he really had been in a rush to leave the palace, he remembered with a ruddy blush.

"Wait a second, I think I know what's going on," the other boy said, circumventing him with narrowed eyes, "Leaving the dorm at odd hours, returning who-knows-when; it all makes so much sense. How could I not see it before?"

Harry felt his stomach flip.

Oh, Merlin. This was bad. This was very, very bad.

Ron gave him a wide smirk, with an oddly approving gleam in his eyes, "You got a girlfriend, didn't you? That's why you've been sneaking away."

Harry found the statement so ironic and relieving that he couldn't even process it in time to reply.

"It's all over your face!" the boy laughed, pacing madly, "Who is she? Oh, I can't wait to tell Hermione- what're Fred and George going to say? Oh man, your very own girlfriend! So that's why you've been spending so much time with the mirror- pro'lly applying glamours- so you'll look good for your girl?"

"How did you know that?" Harry asked before he could keep his mouth shut.

"These stones are parchment-thin! I can hear you casting them all bloody morning like an alarm," he said, as if it were obvious, adding, "You gotta tell me who she is!"

"I hate to ruin your, uh- burst your bubble, but I don't have a girlfriend," Harry said, almost laughing in relief.

The boy rolled his eyes, "Merlin's beard, get dressed and let's get to the Great Hall so I can tell everybody!" he said, "You've probably been snogging her senseless, am I right? Is she not in Gryffindor?"

Harry ignored him, heading to the bathroom and throwing on his clothes, still hearing Ron chatter about one thing or another that he wasn't really paying attention to until he left the room. His friend then proceeded to grab his arm, pulling him along and asking him more inane questions.

"Well, if she ain't a Gryff, than at very least she's in Hufflepuff, definitely not a Ravenclaw- that'd be like Hermione but worse," he paused, shock and horror dawning on his face as he looked back at Harry, "Please say she isn't in Slytherin!"

Harry rolled his eyes, "No."

On and on it went, until he sat down in the Great Hall and started loading his plate with food he wasn't going to eat, which then caused Fred and George to take the seats on either side of him.

"Did I just hear someone say 'girlfriend'?" Fred started, giving George an exaggerated and shocked look.

"Why, I think so, my dear brother!"

Fred shook his head, "Confound it!"

The other twin whispered something in Harry's ear along the lines of, "Who is this foxy little minx of yours, you devilish charmer?"

Hermione leaned in, interrupting the chattering with an ahem, "Obviously, it's not that big of deal! Harry probably doesn't want anyone to know about it-"

George and Fred continued to give him interrogative looks, as ruthless as Aurors questioning a captive death eater, and it was only when people started leaving the Great Hall that they were forced to make it to their first class.

As he left, he barely noticed the pouting girls that were crossing their arms on his table, flashing indignant and suspicious looks to their fellow female students.

The day passed in a similar blur that his morning had started on, leaving him ready to scream bloody murder by the end of the day. His friends would ask him incessant questions and he was forced to throw them small lies just to get them to stop, dropping little hints that didn't exist about how the supposed mystery girl was in Hufflepuff, had mousy brown hair and was, apparently, very adept under the sheets.

This had the opposite effect from what he'd intended, making Ron, Neville, Seamus, Dean, and even once Hermione (who was forced to by her naturally curious nature), beg him for more clues.

Now that he thought about it, one of the Patil sisters had emerged from a giggling, shy group of girls and had asked him a question along the lines of what he found to be a good trait in a girl.

Harry, not knowing how to answer, scratched the back of his head, and said, "A big heart."

This, unbeknownst to him, caused the group standing on the opposite side of the common room to giggle even more flirtatiously. He could make out some words from the quick whispers, a few of them including, "so cute!", "how adorable", "I wish he was my boyfrie-"

All of it left him reeling. In short, he'd never known how much influence he had over that particular sector of the population.

Unable to escape the questions, he found himself sneaking away from his friends and anyone else who crossed his path by trailing like a lost puppy through empty corridors.

To think, it had all started because he'd been too sloppy with putting his robes back on.

The more he traversed up the castle, the more deeply he found himself thinking, rubbing at his aching temples and not noticing another person until he bumped into them.

He stepped back, apologizing profusely, "Oh, I'm so sorry!"

Until he realized, with an uncertain blink, who it was, "Remus!"

He gave the man a tight hug, the werewolf patting him on the back affectionately, "Harry, how've you been?"

"Just brilliant," the boy said, saturating the words with a sarcastic voice, "I suppose you've heard?"

Remus pushed a hand through his graying hair, "About what?"

The boy waved it off, "Never mind it," he said, adding in a hopeful voice, daydreaming that the man was kicking out Umbridge and taking over the Defense classes this year, "What is it that you're doing here?"

Remus leaned in, throwing a suspicious look in both directions, "You've heard about the dark creature in Hogwarts, right?"

Harry gave a nod, realizing with a start that he'd almost forgotten that in all the activity.

"I suppose I should tell you this purely for your safety," Remus said, as if justifying something to himself, "I just got out of a meeting with the Headmaster."

The boy neglected to say anything, a bad feeling spreading within him like algae.

"Well, word is that the creature's been entering and leaving the school at night sometimes," Remus whispered in a conspiratorial manner, "The Headmaster has no idea how, but of course the wards don't lie; he needs us Order members to watch over the school at night and protect the students, maybe even catch it."

The man continued to string some narrative along the lines of him letting the adults handle it, but Harry didn't listen- nor could he listen- over the terrible, deafening ring in his ears.

He scarcely recognized the expanding dots of black over his vision and the accompanying dizziness, as well as the horrible, familiar confusion that leached like a beleaguered phantom over him- spreading out from the center of his lungs and slickening his gut in dread that almost sent him tumbling down a flight of stairs if it were not for Remus' hand clawing at his wrist and making the boy lurch forward into his arms and into unconsciousness.

When he finally awoke on the ground and looked up at a very concerned Remus, he'd realized with chuckles that threatened to turn into hysterical, wrenching sobs, that he'd only passed out because he forgot to breathe.


	26. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing, etc

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

"Harry!"

The boy felt what he could only describe as emerging out from an abyss, staring up at the world around him as if he hadn't ever truly looked at it before.

Remus shifted into his vision, the man's head wavering above his line of sight and only making the boy even more confused than he already was.

His mind couldn't piece together what had happened.

However, when he considered the feeling of cold tile radiating out from the stones and over his back, he had immediately recalled the pressing confusion and dizziness that had plagued him only moments before- realizing, with scrunched brows, that he had passed out.

That was precisely when the laughter had started, at first only a brief flit in his chest but then becoming full blown chuckles that made his ribs ache fiercely.

He had forgotten to breathe; _Merlin_!

He didn't even know why he found it so hilarious, more funny than anything he'd ever thought before, but it was. How awfully and wickedly funny.

The boy had faced Voldemort on numerous occasions, been held under _Imperio_, _Crucio_, and various other dark spells, but it was _this_- forgetting how to do the most basic, instinctual thing he'd ever done- that sent him into unconsciousness.

"Are you okay?"

The concern in the man's voice just made the boy laugh harder, his sides pivoting up and down with gasps of air.

Remus gave him an odd look, examining him as if he'd gone bonkers, "Have you hit your head?"

His laughter grew high pitched, a deep, wrenching breath of trembling air making tears well in his eyes. He couldn't help it, he couldn't help the way he'd desperately huffed, the way his lungs felt the need to gasp frantically for air, and how his splitting sides trembled profusely.

He couldn't control how the feeling got to him- how the dizziness and confusion, coupled with the pain in his head and chest and sides, had made him tear up.

The ground was cold and hard and uncompromising, and he couldn't bare to watch the flickering concern in Remus' eyes; he was an abandoned child again, and he couldn't control it.

There was the frantic scrambling of some great and terrible sadness in his chest, and fear cast like a slithering snake crawled up his spine.

"Harry, please, are you-"

The boy covered his face with his hands, grasping at his hair and pulling hard, "No," he said, his voice sounding like the breaking strings of a harp, "I'm not okay, I'm not bloody okay."

Remus could only blink down at him, helping him into a sitting position against the corridor wall that, thankfully, was empty besides the two of them.

Remus stood, looking out of the corridor and opening his mouth with more than a small amount of confliction, "I should get Madam Pomfrey."

"Wait," Harry said, tugging on his godfather's robes when he started to move away.

Remus gave him an expectant, even more concerned look, waiting for him to speak.

"What was it like," Harry started, struggling to find the words, "What was it like when you first became a werewolf?"

There was a deep shadow that passed over his face and the man instantly crouched down to the boy's level, giving him a harrowing look, "Harry, did someone hurt you?"

He said nothing to this.

The man grew more insistent, his face looking the consistency of oatmeal as he clutched onto the boy's arms, "Answer me."

Harry wiped at his damp face, "I'm not a werewolf."

Remus could only swallow, looking visibly relieved, "You're not acting like yourself."

"There's something I should tell you," the boy said, using the wall to help himself up back onto his feet, "But I don't know how you'll take it."

Harry faced the wall, finding himself unable to turn around and look at his godfather.

He felt a warm hand on his shoulder.

"Something's happened to me," the boy said, "I'm not-"

"You're not..."

He pressed the top of his head against the wall, wondering what he thought he was doing when his senses started returning to him.

"Lupin!"

A scratchy voice and the clunk of a cane on the ground made him turn around, both him and Remus staring at a very annoyed Alastor Moody.

The cane stamped on the ground again, the man tousling with his coat and a spindly eye rotating off of its normal axis, "We've got work to do."

Remus looked back at Harry, causing the other man's eyes to lock on him.

The spindly one seemed to bulge, a bright, slightly scuffed blue iris sending him a piercing look. It was a look that had seen too far, a look that set Harry on edge.

He quickly yet just barely managed to stifle the inhuman growl that was about to rise out of his throat, feeling his canines start to protrude past their normal length and grow sharper edges.

His brain booted into action; it was twenty degrees celsius in the castle, twelve degrees celsius outdoors, a wind from the north was blowing in over the basin, an inversion would likely cause the entrapment of air around the vicinity of the castle which was approximately a three-mile radius until the inner wards were met. There were roughly one thousand and two-hundred fifty occupants within the castle with fifteen casual visitors- the Order.

The fifteen Order members were clustered into three different groups, consisting of one group within the Headmaster's office, another a staircase lower than himself, and then finally Lupin and Moody, with him. His senses could not identify who exactly they were or their future movements beyond that.

As soon as he noticed the changes occurring as well as the pattern of his thoughts, they had stopped; it was strange, he'd never had such a reaction to another person before.

Some part of himself felt threatened by Moody and his magical eye.

Their exchanged looks continued on for another few seconds until the imposing yet stout man cajoled Remus further, as if nothing had happened, "Well, let's get a move on, Lupin."

"This discussion is not over," Lupin said, eyeing Harry, "I should be taking you to the Hospital Wing right now."

Moody said nothing to this, the scars lining his brow puffing up more than usual when his face had scrunched up.

Harry had to think fast, scrubbing at his teary face, "You're busy though, right? Hannah," he started, faltering only briefly, "Hannah Abbott has extra lessons on this floor- only a couple rooms over- I can get her to take me, to make sure I don't pass out again and kill myself on some stairs."

His godfather sighed, "All right, I suppose so," he scratched the back of his head, "We are going to talk about what you wanted to say to me."

Harry nodded, dismissing the pair who wheeled around and started trekking up the stairs; the boy only moved when he was assured he could see them no longer.

In an effort to get away from trouble, he'd created more of it for himself. Passing out, then freaking out, almost exposing what he was- Remus must think he was an absolute nutter.

Maybe he was; afterall, Hogwarts felt awfully similar to an insane asylum.

And now he was trapped, not only in the castle but also with himself.

He was trapped with his own looming volatility, trapped with a bite on his neck now recessed under a fine layer of scarring- a bite that often sent pounding through his body and most notably to his teeth.

Hogwarts was not safe, but this time it wasn't because of a possessed professor, a giant snake, an escaped convict, or even a resurrected Voldemort- it was because of himself.


	27. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing, etc

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

Alastor Moody may have been an ex-Auror but he nonetheless was a rather intelligent, calculated man. Years of fighting dark wizards, evading traps and going directly against Death Eaters had hardened him- had made him a brooding man that was very difficult to know and very difficult to trick.

Being immovable and observant were characteristics he had adopted to survive, characteristics he could say that were, rather unfortunately, not shared by his former colleagues.

He may've been stout, somewhat plump, required a cane now and again whenever his knee acted up, and with a fair share of scars; however, he held himself very highly and with equal cautiousness.

Nothing surprised him, he expected both everything and nothing; each gesture, each word, and each look was laced with his own meticulousness and a constant suspicion of others he never let falter. In any circumstances, ever.

And yet, he had done just that. He had gone against his very own principles unknowingly, and he ended up dumbstruck for the first time in a decade.

His magical eye had rotated right off of it's spindly axis, landing very heavily on one very curious-looking boy.

Harry Potter.

At first glance, he was confused, his eye had detected thin films all over the boy's body, most notably covering his face, neck, and mouth. They were so heavy and thickly applied that it took him a minute to peel through all the layers and find what could possibly be hidden underneath- glamours, he understood rather quickly.

Why would the boy be sporting that many glamours?

The former auror then took the time to analyze further, finding the sheer amount of physical magic hard to wade through with his sight alone.

He couldn't stifle the foreign sensation of surprise; the boy looked like an inhumanly pale, starved rat that didn't know that meaning of sleep!

That was precisely when the boy caught his eyes, the two of them staring at each other for quite a while and, in an even more acutely surprising turn of events; the boy's eyes flashed!

He caught the minute, snarling contempt lining Potter's upper lip- catching the faintest gleam of sharp canines. Sharper than human.

There was the small, almost unnoticeable shift of muscles, the hunching of the back and shoulders, the retracted neck as if to protect the jugular from attack, and the boy's stance easing into the soles of his feet to enhance agility.

Aurors and Alastor alike called it the Turnover, the change often happening in interrogation rooms when the convict was planning to react violently.

It meant two things; one, that the boy didn't trust him and, two, the boy knew that he knew something was off.

One with less experience than the hardened man would've wondered why the boy would have any reason whatsoever to be on guard and distrustful, but Alastor knew exactly what was wrong.

That boy- if it even was a boy- was not Harry Potter.

The movements were too precisely quick, those green eyes were too calculating, somehow too knowing; it could not be the same clumsy, unobservant and affable student he observed briefly at the end of fourth year.

Alastor narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing even farther; if he had to guess, he would likely place the imposter as a middle-aged, obviously dark wizard, perhaps an unmarked Death Eater seeking for Voldemort to enter the school.

It would explain the creature presence in the school, as well as the intermittent entering and leaving that was occurring.

Moody wanted nothing more than to cast a hasty Stupefy and apprehend the man, the boy, creature- whatever it was- and if he were ten years younger and ten times more impulsive, he would've.

But one always must have caution in such dealings.

Lupin and the creature conversed more, until Alastor roundly ended the discussion, "We've got work to do."

And so the two of them walked up the stairs, Moody calculating very precisely the course of action he must take.

With every step he told himself he could go back and get the criminal, but he had neither the body nor the short-sightedness of his youth.

Too many things could go wrong, too many variables could be factored in.

In all likelihood, he would've been able to capture the imposter steadfastly, acting so quickly that the boy didn't even suspect a thing right when the stunning spell hit him.

Yet, the boy could just as easily evade the curse; the sound of Alastor's steps could make him turn over, duck just as the curse barreled right to his chest, giving the creature enough time to cast his own curses or use his dark abilities.

The rest of the Order members, Dumbledore included, were at least a few floors down from them and couldn't be alerted to the creature's invoked volatility, and therefore couldn't supply back up.

The creature could cause a massive amount of damage, and while Alastor was confident in his own abilities, he was not yet assured of Lupin's.

He could see the rest of the story unfolding like a horror story- curious students would peek their heads out of the classroom, the creature would spot them and, in a brazen act of will and violence, seriously maim them or use them as a bargaining token.

Much too risky.

It would do no good to alert the creature any further than just his vague suspicion, he'd firstly have to collect more information about just what type of creature the imposter was, and how he could corner him as effectively as possible.

And when he had the chance, when the circumstances were as the perfect as they could get and the risks were minimized as much as possible, he would crush the threat and recover the Potter boy, if he were still alive.

His fingers tightened vitally over the handle of his cane, knuckles turning pure white at the tension as if he were strangling a Death Eater.

"Lupin," he barked, limping up the stairs and wondering what his best option was.

"Yes?"

He considered telling the man his suspicions; if he were to alert the whole Order and the creature remained unaware, then there operations in the school would continue much more quickly and smoothly.

If he were to tell Dumbledore, the creature would likely be caught within the hour.

And yet...

Alastor wanted to reserve the hunt for himself.

"Nothing."

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP


	28. Chapter 28

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing, etc

(A/N) Hey! Sorry it's been taking me so long to update, it's the end of the year with TONS of testing at my school.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

Harry's hands trembled lightly over the surface of oaker wood, so slight and gentle that if he couldn't see than the physical sensation of grain under his fingers wouldn't even register in his head. He was tempted- very, very tempted- almost yet not quite intolerably so.

The corridors were dark, very dark and with only the barest traces of lighting; surely he could sneak past the Order members that were stationed all over the castle, yes? If he just stuck to the shadows?

With that thought, his pressure on the wooden portrait door became more stringent, attune to even the most faint reasoning he could possibly think of that would push him over the edge and out of the Gryffindor common room.

Days. It had been days, since he'd seen Auguste. He was going mad or, at very least, he certainly felt like it. Feeling mad was half the battle to actually being it.

Another deep, shuddering tremble wracked through his body, pulsing right from the two teeth marks on his neck; Auguste was calling him to the castle, willing his hands to push harder, his legs to tense in anticipation of sprinting, and himself into an even deeper and darker kind of sickness then only a moment before.

That was mad-right?- wasn't it just slightly mad to believe someone was calling Harry when, more likely than not, it was just himself? Not that he was thinking it, but he could certainly feel it- could feel the older Vampire's agitation, his need and his call for the boy to come back to him. If such a thing were possible.

It was the third night he'd been waiting by the portrait door like a ghostly specter, edging yet not quite finding it within himself take the risk and sneak to Hogsmeade. And oh, he wanted it. He wanted to, so badly. So very, very badly.

But- and there was always a but- it was too much of a risk. More likely than not, an Order member would spot him skulking in the corridors, would send him straight back to bed or detention with more than a note of suspicion. Or, worse yet, they would follow him curiously, tracing his steps through the secret passage and into Hogsmeade, and would watch him apparate away.

If Harry knew anything at all, he knew that leaving the castle would only pin him as the "dark creature."

Just what was his other option? If he was not caught this evening, then it would be the next, or the one after that. He would be doing nothing but prolonging his capture, and then soon enough they'd find out he himself was a Vampire. The dark creature that presented so much of a threat to those around him, that he had literally been hunted down.

Harry's throat tightened like it often did, his body pulsing with the physical desire to be near Auguste, and his canines also joining in the cacophony of bodily sensations. The tug-of-war in his body and the one in his head left him exhausted.

The grain felt gruff and unfamiliar under his hands, like a cat whose hairs had gone all bristly with suspicion when a stranger tried to pet them.

Choosing to leave the castle was a bad option; choosing to stay in the castle had, in Harry's prior experience, also proven to have been a bad option.

Harry thought harder, butting his head softly against the portrait door. Suppose if he were able to leave the castle and arrive at Hogsmeade undetected, and suppose he did make it to Auguste; in the morning, would he be able to go back?

No, the question was not about ability, but even further within himself- would he go back?

If he did, he'd only repeat the process of risky sneaking again that night, of sneaking that was not long to go unnoticed. If he did, he'd be reintroduced into a world where he was inherently not apart of any longer.

Hogwarts was his first home, Hogwarts had given him everything- from his robes to his very best friends. Everybody he cared about, everything he cared about, and the only life he had known outside of the Dursleys' was right where he was at the moment.

And one bite had changed it all. One bite had changed the very nature of his blood, his instincts, and perhaps even the nature of his soul. He was a vampire and these- these people- were humans, the two species hadn't ever and likely couldn't ever coexist.

Even the castle's magic, that seemed so titillating and accepting, avoided him and at times ghosted over his back in a way that made him shudder unpleasantly.

Hogwarts used to his escape, but in an odd and unbelievable turn of events, it ended up being something he had to escape from.

If Harry decided to see Auguste, returning would come with a price that might not be worth it. If Harry decided to see Auguste, and chose not to return, chose to leave behind everything he had once known, what would the price be?

A spike of nervous trembling had assaulted Harry once more, but this time not coming from his bite.

If he left Hogwarts he might not ever come back. Could he live with that?

No, no, there was quidditch, and Ron, Hermione, and the twins and Luna and Neville- there were so many things he didn't know if he could live without.

At the same time, he couldn't live like this. All the sneaking, the lies, the exhaustion- all of it- was pressing into him like a barbell twice his weight. On top of that, there was the very real, tangible idea that he could, at some point, hurt someone very badly.

He would not only be forced out of the castle, but the guilt he would feel would be intolerable. If he hurt one of his friends, Harry sucked in a deep breath at the thought and nodded it off with a shake of the head; anyways, wouldn't it be best to leave the castle before something like that happened?

Harry fingered the wood of the portrait door, taking a hesitant step back and padding off into his dormitory for a restless few hours of sleep before classes would start again.

The morning, of course, started anew with an annoyingly chipper Hermione and a curious Ron who, all the way to the Great Hall, made much conversation about his non-existent girlfriend.

Dumbledore made another quick reminder of the honorary Aurors stationed throughout the castle, and to keep calm because the threat would soon be taken care of; this, of course, started a whole new round of rumors floating around the school. Some of them consisting of even more outlandish things like a Dementor-Wolf hybrid that ate first years for breakfast.

Students would regularly go up to the figures leaning against the corridor walls, asking them excited questions along the lines of: "Have you seen the dark creature?", "What did it look like?", and "Do you think you'll catch it soon?"

One of them, Nymphadora (that Harry quickly learned to call Tonks), took the questions in stride while Alastor Moody would bark at the students and tell them to get a move on, adding, very boastfully, that they should remain VIGILANT and report anything suspicious.

Harry himself had taken to avoiding the Order as much as possible, sending half-smiles with his eyes averted to the ground whenever they tried to get his attention because some part of him felt threatened by the group. They were the ones hired to capture or even kill him, after all.

The only one he ever openly engaged conversation with was Tonks, but she clumsy and a little confused about what she was doing despite being a competent witch.

Besides her, he wasn't comfortable with anyone. Especially, very, very especially, not with one Alastor Moody.

He was different from the others, and Harry didn't know if he'd agree to be in a room with him alone for one minute if George were betting him one thousand galleons. That man- there was something about the way his magical eye bobbled after him whenever the boy couldn't avoid passing the man, there was something about the way the man's scars lining his brows puffed ever so slightly when he was giving Harry an inscrutable look.

His Vampire-self felt it too, whenever Harry was even anywhere near where Moody was, his fangs would grow and almost pierce straight through his glamours.

There was something off about that man.

The fourth day went on just the same as the last did, Harry quelling his sickness and trying to appear absolutely normal.

When all of his classes were over, he spent a lazy afternoon in the common room piecing together a half-hearted DADA essay about boggarts or some other thing, Hermione sending him silent looks that verged on a demand that he at least stop sloshing stray dots of ink all over the parchment.

Hermione nibbled on her lower lip, aheming at him, "Do you want me to read that over?"

"No," Harry said balefully, "She'll just give me a T, anyways."

"She doesn't even read it, 'Mione, you could write it about toe jam and title it '_Umbridge is an Ugly Toad_' and she'd still check it off," Ron added with a snicker.

Hermione only huffed in response, turning to look over at the portrait door when it swung open and Luna shuffled in in.

The girl readjusted her oddly framed glasses, plopping down on the settee in the very middle of the Ron and Hermione.

"Hullo, Harry," the girl had said, giving him a long look, "Your head is filled with Nargles, you've been thinking too hard!"

No one graced that statement with a reply, Harry staring unseeingly down at his parchment, "What would happen if one of us had to move," he said, looking up at his friends' blinking faces, "Like, to a Russian academy or something?"

His face reddened at Hermione's laugh, "Where did that come from?"

"I'm just wondering," the boy rubbed at the back of his neck, opening and closing his mouth as if trying to express something he couldn't articulate, "If one of us moved away, or something, would we still all be close friends or-?"

"Duh," Ron said with a roll of eyes, "There is floo powder; you could come and visit the castle anytime."

"Well what if you couldn't come back to Hogwarts, at all, even to visit," Harry said further, "And you couldn't visit the other school either, at all; I mean, how would we-?"

"Such odd hypotheticals."

Ron was the only one that still engaged him, "I suppose you'd have to visit over the summer, stay at the Burrow, or something- find a middle ground?"

"Okay, what if you left Hogwarts, and you were going to this other school, but no one could know, not even the teachers or the Headmaster-"

"Blimey!" Ron laughed, "One would think you were planning to run away."

Harry did a tense, wavering impression of a real laugh.

"Is your girlfriend crazy?" Ron mocked him, "'Cause she must be rubbing off on you then."

Luna only smiled, examining the ceiling, "Oh, Harry doesn't have a girlfriend!"

The whole room suddenly perked up, leaning their heads closer to the group, "Huh?"

"Harry has a boyfriend, of course," she said knowingly, oblivious to the looks thrown to her.

Ron bursted out laughing, face redder than a tomato, "That's a good one!"

"Did I say something funny?"

At the unperturbed monotone in her voice, the redhead's laughs subsided and he gave her a confused look before he turned to look at Harry.

Harry's whole body was tense, his face burrowed into his DADA paper while it flushed with a bright red.

There was a deafening silence, the sound of rushing blood in his ears blocking out everything. Did she really just say that?

He quickly pulled his head out from his books, praying that he could salvage the situation somehow, "Luna, always joking!" he said, unable to force even the barest chuckle out of his tight throat.

"Is that true?"

The boy examined Ron briefly, looking at the shoulders drooping from shock and deep frown marring his face.

Before anyone could say another word, Harry jumped to his feet, scrambling to get his books, "I have to go talk to McGonagall about that- that dish plate assignment," he said, bolting from the common room and shutting the portrait door exactly when the excited whispering started happening.

He trekked down several flights of stairs, wandering aimlessly without ever losing his quick pace.

Bloody fantastic.

Just bloody fantastic.


	29. Chapter 29

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing, ideologically sensitive themes, etc

(A/N) whew... sorry this took so long. I just realized a month had passed and I hadn't uploaded anything! All of my testing is officially done, so now I can devote more time to this.

Also, thanks to everyone who has followed, favorited, reviewed, etc. You're amazing!

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

Harry had spent his last few hours holed up in the darkest, most secluded corner of the library that he could possibly find, burrowing himself within stacks of undisturbed books. Being an expert at making himself small and invisible when he needed to, the boy himself had not been disturbed- even by the curious Madam Pince- and this left him plenty of time to think.

Thinking- something that he could honestly call both his favorite and most hated pass time. At that moment, and how it had been for weeks, it rested firmly in his "most hated" activity.

Currently, his head was bouncing along one circular train track; the first eddying motion of his mind analyzing the situation, quickly trucking along until it reached the next definable station that consisted of imaging the worst possible consequences, then came the stage of self-deprecation, and afterwards it started the whole movement all over again.

The metaphor didn't even fit fully into the sharp, often nauseating turns and turrets his head would take. One moment he'd be formulating a plan to get himself out of the mess Luna had created and then the next moment-_woosh!_- his head would be right back at where he had started in the first place.

Harry scarfed on the edges of his lower lip, fidgeting endlessly in between the books that towered over him like crumbling citadels.

There had been eight, maybe nine people in the Gryffindor common room besides himself and his immediate friends the moment Luna had let slip information that Harry didn't even know how she knew.

Nine people. Nine people who had heard and, the moment he left the common room, started talking about it and by the time Harry had made it to the library, had probably already spread that information to everyone in Gryffindor.

How long would it be until the whole school knew? A day? An hour? Had it already reached the Hufflepuffs?

It wasn't even, well, it almost wasn't true. Almost. Auguste wasn't really his boyfriend, not quite, right?

He fought against an internal discord that always seemed to near a resolution yet never quite touch it, and that was likely because there was no way Harry could possibly fix the situation.

He wasn't prepared to deal with the looks, the intolerable whispering, and- worst of all- the questions; the terrible questions that more than a few people were likely to ask him.

He'd just have to wait it out, like he always did, and despite everything he always came out on top- didn't he? It would be alright, Harry tried to convince himself, it always was. Except for, of course, when it wasn't.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

There was something _off_. Something very _off_ indeed. No, not off, quite a bit more off than off itself- something was wrong. Something was perhaps very deeply wrong.

And the worst part of it all- Auguste could feel it. Auguste knew that there was something off, something "very deeply wrong", and knew just as well that there was no way he could fix it. Not by himself, that is.

It had been _off_ for days, days lingering now on the horizon of a week; a week without that insufferable brat by his side, that same insufferable brat who promised Auguste he would be back. And it was killing him.

He had assured himself that sometime, any time, the boy would come running back to him due to the unsavory effects of distance on their bond. Until then, well, he'd just have to busy himself as he had always done.

Except that he was barely able to shake himself out of the dazed-like trance he'd been stuck in for the past few days. All because of one brat who didn't know he was his possession.

Auguste sighed, toying with the numerous family rings on his fingers, and hungrily eyed the expanse of dark outside of his window. Despite how fervently he denied it, this time there was something different about the boy's absence from his side, there was something unspeakably wrong about their distance.

There was a heaviness within himself emanating from the bond, a heaviness that was not quite anger or sadness, that bespoke of something even greater and more terrible- danger. It was an unshakable sensation of danger looming like a bobbing, black beacon on the ocean.

Auguste couldn't help but feel- oh, it was silly, so perversely incredulous- that there was someone, or maybe even something, that was hunting his Harry.

And worst of all, he could do nothing about it. He could do nothing to wrest this sense of danger into it's proper place, much less decipher why it was there in the first place.

Auguste knew it couldn't be real, that Hogwarts had protective wards which rivalled his castle's own, but he sensed the wrongness so vividly it was hard to shake himself from the almost mad protectiveness welling in his body.

The vampire leaped from his armchair, prodding the fireplace with a blackened poker to calm his jittery arms while listening to the wood crackle.

What or, more precisely, _who_ would present any danger to the boy? There was nothing, no one, not his classmates, or professors, or even the Headmaster.

Not unless...

Auguste felt his gums prickle unpleasantly, his back becoming taut like a bowstring.

Not unless someone discovered his secret.


	30. Chapter 30

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing, circumstantial instances of homophobia, etc

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

To say that Harry had avoided his friends would've been an understatement. He didn't merely avoid them, he did everything he could possibly think of to evade them. Whether or not that evasion included a surplus of Notice-me-Not charms or camping out in the most secluded areas of the school, he did it without question.

It was not just his friends that he avoided either, it was everyone. In the halls, he'd keep his head bent to the ground, narrowly avoiding any bit of conversation, whispers, or stares that he could by keeping his eyes focused on the tiles that slipped by like a rushing current underneath his feet.

He would map out the shortest, most decisive route to his next class- whether it be Potions in the dungeons or Transfiguration with McGonagall- and pray he'd make it in class in time to have not heard too many slurs or too many questions.

And why did he go to such extreme lengths to keep as much distance as he could from everyone? Why did he find it so important that he remained as unnoticed as he possibly could? What was so different about his secret from second year, that he found it so solely important to elude his friends?

Harry sighed shakily; he didn't quite know either. In fact, he didn't know at all. What he did know, though, was that they wouldn't look him in the eyes the same way ever again. They wouldn't gesture at him the same way, or slap him on the back the same way. Maybe they wouldn't even talk about Quidditch together the same way.

Or maybe it was him who wouldn't be able to look them in the eye. Or talk about Quidditch. Or whatever. He didn't quite know, but what he did know is that he couldn't confront them in the same manner- now that they knew, thanks to Luna, he was a freak.

As long as he could make it through the day, he supposed that didn't quite matter. That was also precisely why he was currently leaning against a dingy beige wall in the kitchens filled with house elves who wanted to feed him food he didn't want to eat.

"Mr. Potter, Master, Sirs, Twinklys made this's scone for you," Dobby said, blinking up at him from a sea of large, round eyes and wrinkly ears, and presenting food on a silver plate. "Yous should try it, sirs. Dobby knows you like scones."

"Thank you, Dobby, but I'm not very hungry right now." Harry said, managing a smile that resembled weak tea.

A small, girlish house elf butted her way through the sea of workers, "Then whys you here if you nots eat lunch?"

The boy shrugged, gazing at some distant point beyond the room. "Waiting for my next class, I suppose."

Dobby's face crumpled like a worn leather jacket, the house elf seeming to have an inscrutable anxiety about himself as he adjusted his socks with spindly fingers.

Hermione and Ron wouldn't look for him in the kitchens, if they were even looking for him at all. He swallowed thickly at the thought, having only seen the both of them once in Transfiguration earlier that morning.

His stay in the kitchens couldn't pass fast enough, and the next time he looked up from the musky kitchen tiles was when a small yet loud grandfather clock let out a particularly loud ding.

Harry slung his books over his shoulder, the boy running his tongue over his teeth when he left through the portrait door and trekked through the hall.

Thankfully, he made it through the halls without incident, and it was practically a blessing when he made it to History with Binns. By then the room had filled up enough that he was able to find a seat far away from Hermione, who almost jumped up from her seat at the sight of him.

"Harry-"

She hesitantly sat back down the ghostly professor gave a waspish clearing of the throat, beginning a long and sleep-inducing lecture.

Harry dutifully pulled out a parchment and quill, trying to force himself to listen, yet he quickly devolved into doodling spirals down the page.

For a moment, things almost seemed normal. That was until he realized who he had sat down next to when he rushed into the classroom.

It took him a minute to recognize the tense, nervous pattering of Neville's quill on the edge of his desk, the boy throwing him looks that didn't quite resemble the contemptuous ones he'd received earlier in the day.

"Harry," he said in a hushed whisper.

When the boy had finally looked up for longer than three seconds from the spirals on his parchment, Neville stuttered.

"Could I borrow a- a- quill?"

Harry only pointed at the one Neville was drumming on the desk already, and the other boy laughed nervously when he saw the dripping quill clenched in his sweaty hand.

"Oh, right, duh; silly of me."

Five minutes later, Harry was forced to look up again when Neville called his name in a hushed whisper.

"What is it?"

"Uh, you, I don't know if the rumors are true, but-" the boy stuttered, "Even if they are, I don't care, it-it doesn't matter to me who you like. Or-or- what gender they are."

"Okay." Harry didn't think it was possible, but Neville had floored him with one simple, awkward sentence, "Thank you."

He went back to doodling endless spirals down the parchment, sometimes tearing little holes through the calfskin at the force of his quill as Binns droned on endlessly about the Giant Wars.

For the rest of the lesson, he tried to force a large lump out of his throat.

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

By the time Harry made it back to the Gryffindor dormitories, the sky was quickly darkening and unusual turrets of hail were beating against the stones of the castle.

There was a special magic about the cold sleet of rain and intermittent crystals of ice that always lent an even cosier, more tender quality to the castle. The fireplace was transformed into a refuge, the yellow flickering light that was blanketed everything becoming softer and more welcoming in the wake of a storm.

But this was not the case for Harry when he eased himself discreetly through the portrait door with the fat lady; instead, everything had a cold, sort of desolate eeriness. It reminded him uneasily of the gray sterility of the fluorescent lights that buzzed on the walls of his old primary school.

Harry breathed through his nose, his mind assaulted with information- it was eleven degrees celsius outdoors, a cold wind was blowing through the basin and would soon pass through the mountains to the west. The storm would be gone within a matter of two, maybe three, hours.

He stumbled backward, not expecting the onslaught of knowledge about his environment at the moment, and it was his light bump against the closed portrait door behind him that alerted those huddling by the fire of his presence.

He was then assaulted with something else aside from mere knowledge about degrees and wind and weather. There was the sound of a commotion and the sudden knocking of air from his lungs when a brown bush of hair clouded his vision.

He almost drew out his wand until he recognized the chocolaty hair and that he wasn't being attacked, rather, he was hit with a smothering hug. A Hermione hug.

The girl pulled out of the hug, examining him at arms' length with a breathless irritation. When he coughed the hair out of his mouth, the boy's vision sidled over a pair of red heads and one very blonde girl with a dreamy smile.

"You shouldn't have avoided us, Harry, we're your friends," Hermione began, pausing only to search for the right words, "We want you to know that we don't care, I mean, we really are okay with-"

"Whichever way you swing," George said, with a grin.

"What ever team you bat for," Fred added.

"That you've jumped the fence."

"That you've left the closet with a few coat hangers-"

Hermione tightened her grip over Harry's arms, making him wince with a sheepish grin, "In fact, I've picked up a few books about homosexual behavior in other species-"

She glared when the twins started snickering, Harry's face quickly reddening as he cleared his throat loudly.

"So, who's your boyfriend? Is he cute?" Fred asked, faking a dramatic swoon.

His need to change the topic quickly made him realize the absence of one particular person, and after glancing over the heads in the dorm he asked, "Where's Ron?"

The mood in the room got noticeably more chilled over, and Harry grew more wary when Hermione started rubbing at the back of her neck, "Well, he hasn't really come around to the idea that you have a boyfriend."

The boy's smile disappeared like smoke from an open jar, and that's when George stepped over to pat his shoulder, "He's just acting like a big prat, is all. He's not the brightest Lumos."

The boy grappled with the information, reeling backwards slightly. He was suddenly taken over with the strong urge to disappear again, with the reminder ticking like a steady metronome in his head that there was no way his friends could see him as normal anymore. "I need to go."

Hermione grasped at his sleeve, tugging him back, "Please tell me you're not running off; you'll be back before curfew, right?"

"Yes," Harry said, feeling bile in his throat.

"You promise?"

The boy gave a quick, dismissive nod and skipped out from the portrait door before taking a sharp turn down stairs and through winding corridors.

Meanwhile his friends were left staring at the back of the door as it closed with a silent, almost inaudible click.

Fred sniffed, "You just let him go?"

"I can't just force him to stay, no matter how much I would like to," Hermione admitted, rubbing her hands together in a display of uneasiness.

"He'll be alright, 'Mione."

HPhpHPhpHPhp

Harry wasn't sure how long he had walked, but by the time he had managed to calm his jittery legs that goaded him to be anywhere but the dormitories, it was likely almost curfew.

The sky had grown oppressively darker, the type of dark that seemed as vast and infinite as it seemed confined. It was an unfathomable dark, a dark only accentuated by the steady hail that made the stained glass tremble in their stone frames.

It was going to be a long night, he could tell. It was going to be the type of night, the type of darkness, and the type of ominousness that was invariably a prelude to something much worse.

It was when Harry took another sharp turn into the next hallway that he heard a nasally voice behind him, "Fag!"

The stresses of the day and the tension in his bones made the boy whip around at that voice, suddenly and blindly enraged. He was met with the sight of a peaky and well-kempt Draco Malfoy.

"Excuse me?"

The boy approached him, arms crossed and chin raising higher in the air with the quickness of his strides, "You heard me."

Harry couldn't help the automatic jerk of his legs forward, his fists clenching and unclenching by his side. He refused to say anything to the pureblood.

The pair of them stared at each other for a long while, a quiet tension permeating the air and crawling over the stones at the enforced silence. Unbeknownst to either of them, a third, more stout figure loomed in the next parallel hall, edging quietly towards the boys.

The Malfoy boy laughed, the corner of his upper lip barring a row of perfectly white teeth, "Disgusting. You're kind shouldn't be allowed in the male dormitories."

Harry couldn't stifle the guttural growl frothing from out of his throat. He edged uncomfortably close to the blond.

The other boy felt a brief panic that surprised him, it was the type of panic he would feel if he were exploring the Forbidden Forest and he heard something snapping twigs behind him, "Stay back, I don't want you getting too close, fag."

"Say that again and I swear to-"

Draco raised an eyebrow, "Fag."

Harry couldn't control the the shot of adrenalin and fierce anger through every nerve in his body, and the sudden burst of catalytic energy through him made his fist collide with Malfoy's nose immediately at the word.

The boy staggered back, clutching at his jaw and grappling for the wand in the pocket of his robe, "Expulso!"

Harry narrowly dodged the jet of red light that flew past his head and collided with the stones behind him.

Draco dropped his wand, and the piece of wood clattered to the floor all too slowly- the tip of it meeting the tile with one click and then another decisive click at the other end met the tile- and it rolled gently down the sloping tilt of the corridor.

Rather than try to fight for his wand, the blond just watched as it rolled, choosing instead to reel with a dramatic flourish of the arms. The one hand that tightly clutched around his nose fell to his side and that- _that_- is when Harry smelt it.

It was the most glorious, enrapturing scent on earth, emanating from red rivulets dribbling from Draco's nose.

Harry didn't feel it, he did not feel his canines rip through his sore gums and through the glamours, he did not feel the expansion of his pupils until his irises became faint green rims surround black holes, and he did not feel the the unstoppable movement of his muscles towards the source of the scent.

No, he was focused on the thick, fresh redness the swelled over the boy's lips and dripped down his chin onto his green tie.

Before the boy could react, Harry gripped his neck with an inhuman force, dragging Draco until his head met the wall.

The boy could feel it, could feel the tangible heat wafting off of his prey, the sweat lining his adrenal glands and the furious machinations of muscles too frightened to move under Harry's gaze. Most of all, he could feel the swell and pump and rush of a jugular thrumming from underneath his fingers, could feel the swish of the aorta valve of his heart all the way to the most neglected arteries at the tips of his fingers.

It was invigorating, empowering, and so, so very tempting.

Something at the back of the boy's mind shouted at him, telling him to stop, that somehow what he was doing was bad, but he easily ignored it.

Harry opened his mouth, tightening his hold on the Malfoy boy's neck and just starting to graze the skin with two spikes for teeth before his toned senses heard it- at first a mere whisper- but then seeming to echo throughout the castle.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Suddenly his arms and legs were drawn together, his body as stiff as board, and he fell with a bash to the tiled floor.

He heard his prey clatter to the floor, coughing and rubbing at his bruised throat.

His eyes darted for the source of the spell, limbs struggling against the paralyzation.

He could not find the figure and, for a moment, believed whoever it was had left but found himself to be entirely wrong when a meaty fist tugged at his mop of hair and dragged him up to lean against the wall.

Harry wanted to scream at the pain in his scalp but not even a squeak escaped passed his stony face. He felt a sudden pain at his own neck when those meaty, sweltering hands grasped at him. A darting, magical eye wafting into his peripheral before the perpetrator stepped fully in front of him.

Alastor Moody.

The boy's eyes widened and he lashed against the spell with all his strength, trying to escape but the man only gripped him more with even greater force.

He started sliding down the wall, but the man slammed his head back to the stone, grasping his black hair like a lifeline to make him do a poor imitation of standing.

Harry heard footsteps clatter away from him.

"I knew it," the stout man said, with a dirty grin on his face, "I knew it."

Harry only stared at his beaty, flushed face.

"Now, where's the real Harry Potter?"

The boy would've looked confused if he could, and the ex-Auror threw a harsh spell at his face that loosened his mouth and vocal cords.

The first chance he got, he started screaming, but that only caused the hardened Alastor to clip him on the side of the head. "Tell me."

"I am Harry Potter-" the boy said in a breathy, panicked manner, "What are you-"

"You will not lie to me, vampire!" the man yelled, holding his weathered wand to the base of the boy's throat.

Harry's eyes darted back and forth, his pupils slowly easing until his green irises started to become visible again. "I have no idea-"

Harry squeaked out again as the man continued to pull at his hair, the wood of his wand squeezing further into the boy's neck.

The ex-Auror growled, using his other arm to pull out a small phial that had been tucked in the breast pocket of his old jacket- the liquid inside looked vaguely lilac, or it may have been blue. "If you won't talk, than maybe this will loosen your tongue."

He uncorked it, sending the solution down Harry's throat when he forced his lips apart.

The boy gagged at the taste, but almost immediately fell into a fuzzy trance.

"What's your name?"

"Harry Potter."

There was a brief, tense silence full of heavy breathing, "Who were your biological parents?"

"James Potter and Lily Potter nee Evans."

A growl, "Rubbish."

"What are you?"

"A vampire."

"Do you work for Voldemort?"

"No."

There was another growl that would've made Harry's chest flit up in fear if he had proper motor control, "I asked you- Do you work for Voldemort, the self-titled Dark Lord?"

"No."

"Who do you work for?"

"No one."

There was a sharp pain on the back of his head when it was sent colliding with the stone wall again, and he could barely hear past the ringing in his ears.

"What are you plotting at Hogwarts?"

"Nothing."

"Do you have any affiliations with Voldemort?"

"No."

"Must've found some way to block the effects," the man muttered to himself. "What have you done with Harry James Potter?"

"Nothing."

"Where is Harry James Potter?"

"I am him."

"Is Harry James Potter alive?"

"Yes."

"Rubbish!"

He grappled tighter onto the boy's hair, making him cry out and come out of his trance-like state, "Professor, I'm not lying to you- I swear, I'm him, I'm Harry!"

"Lies!" the Auror shrieked, "Harry Potter is no dark creature!"

"But he is, I mean, I am! I was bitten!"

Alastor raised his wand, pointing it between the boy's eyes with a familiar, ruddy red curse dancing on the tip. "The Headmaster has permitted me to use any means possible to draw out the answers from anyone I can."

Harry breathed through his nose, resisting the urge to scream, and began calmly despite the unpleasant prickling of his scalp and the ringing of his head, "It was summer, I had ran from the Dursleys' 'cause- 'cause- I had almost killed Dudley; I went to Diagon Alley- I, it- it was night time, I was alone, there were these men- three of them- they wanted to hurt me, and then there was another man and I thought he saved me but he took me to an alley, and he bit me. He bit me and left me there for dead and then I woke up a few days- I don't know how long- later and I started having these urges, you see? And-"

"Convincing." he said, "But impossible."

The ruddy curse expanded like a spiral jetty across the boy's vision, and he could hear the letters dancing on the tip of the man's tongue, "Cru-"

It was then that the force of the _Petrificus Totalus_ faltered, if only for a second, under the strain of fighting muscles and a primal instinct dating back millions of years that made Harry dodge it. The red beam was sent into the wall where his head would've been had Alastor still gripped his hair.

Having broken the curse, Harry jetted down the stairs of the castle, tumbling to the secret portrait that led to Hogsmeade.

As more streams of light zoomed past his body, and the force of sleet on the stained glass windows outside seemed to made the whole castle rumble, one thing became abundantly clear:

Hogwarts was no longer home.

HPhpHPhpHP


	31. Chapter 31

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: minor swearing,

HPhpHPhpHP

His entire body was on fire; every nerve coiled and snapped at him like live electrical wires, his muscles struggled at every movement, begging for him to stop, and his head felt like it would burst at all the pressure building in his skull. But his legs wouldn't stop moving, propelling him forward with only a mixture of adrenaline and stale oxygen.

His shaky hands scrambled for his wand, pulling it deftly from the pocket of his torn robes. Still running, the boy called out a hushed "Lumos!"

When he was met with the sight of a displaced panel above his head at the end of the tunnel, Harry scuttled out of the secret passageway, as quickly and quietly as possible closing the wooden slab that opened into Honeydukes' back room.

He took only a strained moment to catch his breath, hearing pellets of hail beat on the windows of the store so mercilessly that it seemed even the rotted wood panels beneath his feet trembled. Or maybe it was just him.

Stacks of boxes coated in thick dust flickered in the light of his wand, giving the whole place an abandoned feel. That was when he realized his Lumos had started to patter out like a candle sitting on a dewy windowsill would, only spurring to life for a moment when he gripped his wand harder in his hand.

He took a step forward, wincing at the irritable creak of the floor beneath him; if Moody had followed him through that portrait-

That was when he heard it, a stifled noise. A-a- cough? Yes, a cough.

Harry peered at the room in fear, completely paralyzed, and trying to listen through the ringing in his ears. There was no way the sound could be anything else, but the boy still eyed everything in the room as if for confirmation.

He glanced at the short, flower-patterned pair of curtains hanging on a rusty wire that grated softly- an altogether different sound than what he had heard. His vision crawled along to the boxes, that didn't make any noise, and then to the soft baseboards lining the room that seemed to struggle against the walls with only a crick.

His muscles tightened still at the sound of another cough, and then he found himself imagining it. Imagining the source of the sound. Somehow his mind could see it more transparently than looking through a crystal, even though his Lumos still dimmed and he could barely focus his eyes enough to see the edges of the ceiling on the other end of the room.

Then he realized that he wasn't imagining it, rather, he was sensing it. He sensed the stout, rotund figure still in the secret passageway right beneath his feet. He sensed the figure's confusion at seeing nothing but closed off wall before him, not aware of the wooden slab almost right above his head that opened into Honeydukes. Then his mind heard it, heard the cough stifled into a worn leather sleeve.

Moody. Moody was right below his feet. One more move. One more move on another creaky floorboard, even the slightest one, could alert the man to Harry's presence and could send another spell snaking right between his eyes until- _boom_- the boy fell flat again.

And what then? What would happen if Moody found him again? He imagined all the possibilities in his mind, making his head ache with a revived pain. Moody could torture him with renewed enthusiasm. Moody could drag him to the Headmaster's office or, worse yet, drag him straight to the Order. Moody could humiliate him entire all of his friends and family. Moody could vilify him in front of the entire world, convincing everyone that Harry was not in fact Harry, but an impostor. Moody could kill him.

The boy clasped his hand to his mouth, stopping the half-scream, half-struggle for a gasp of air. One move. One move could kill him.

At the same time, he couldn't stay still forever. Sooner or later, Moody would find the slab of wood that remained the only thing that kept him from the boy.

Harry allowed only one slip of breathe to pass through his lips, fighting against the mad pounding of his heart that demanded more oxygen. And then, like the nonsensical urge to jump someone gets when they see the edge of a cliff, an urge halfway in between the realm of wanting the thrill of falling and yet not wanting to hit the ground, Harry allowed one of his legs to stagger back.

The impulse was brief, almost brief enough to be non-existent, but the mistake of moving his leg even the smallest amount backwards was infinite. Harry couldn't, and maybe even wouldn't ever again, find his balance, and his foot gave a hard stamp on the ground right above Moody's head below him before his whole body tilted back and crashed in the stacks of boxes.

He never let go of his wand, yet his Lumos went out immediately, blanketing the whole room in impenetrable darkness for a moment before a voracious, red light burst up through the floor and into the ceiling where he once stood.

Harry scrambled onto his knees, fighting against the dizziness that made the whole room whirl in a haze of dust, boxes, and red light. The one thing he truly recognized was Moody struggling up onto the floor from the blast hole, pushing himself up into the room with his wand clenched in meaty fingers.

He dodged a streak of light that sent towards the back of his head, the shade of it invariably carrying what would've been another stunning spell, and forced himself to bash into the door that led to the main part of the store.

More spells were sent streaming towards him, Moody halfway dangling from the secret passageway and focusing only on shouting out spells rather than saying anything.

Harry couldn't hear most of them through the pronounced ringing in his head, and he kicked the door wide open only to bash into a shelf of different flavored gumballs.

The shelf wobbled in his vision just as much as the floor did, and he couldn't figure out whether or not it was because of his vertigo or because it was on the verge of crashing.

"Expulso!" was the one spell Harry heard, the jet of light barreling into a glass of gumballs and making it explode open in a shower of glass. Like a domino effect, the other containers started bursting over the edge of the shelf, sending more shards and gum scattering through the shop.

Neon greens, mustardy yellows, murky browns, bright pinks and purples and blaring reds expanded over his eyes and, in his confusion, his back bashed again on the shelf. The towering shelf rocked before decisively falling backwards and crashing into other stands that Harry payed little attention to.

He stumbled, pointing his wand towards the glass windows and shouting, "Confringo!"

Harry sprinted through the former glass barriers, instantly surprised by the sensation of cold pellets and harsh rain soaking him. The ground swayed back and force, making the boy wonder if he were swimming the ocean before he remembered where he was.

Moody ran after him too, his face scrunched and scars puffing out like a line of red sores, sending more dizzying lights after the boy.

The boy grappled for the locket underneath his layers of clothing, grasping the brass thing like a lifeline, "Soi-"

Right as he was about to scream the last letter into the rain and cold sleet, one decisive spell was sent whizzing right at the side of his head, making his limbs snap together to his sides and him fall to the muddy ground with only a thump.

Harry was stuck staring up the black, impenetrable sky, rain meeting his face and mingling with blood to give his ashy skin a swirling, pink tint.

He couldn't look away from the infinite abyss above his head, nor could he stop hearing the insane laugh provoked from Moody, or stop hearing the sound of feet stamping on the mud and ripping from it with a spongy twang that kept coming closer.

When the footsteps stopped, Harry was met with an weathered face looming above his own- a face darkened by the night sky but having one bobbing, magical eye illuminated by some stray light source. The fake blue iris pierced into the boy, making him want to shudder away but struck with the terrible knowledge that he didn't have that ability.

He heard the sound of heavy breathing that wasn't his own, "For a second," Moody's voice was gruff and yet terribly pleased, "I thought you might have escaped."

Harry was unable to scream at the feeling of a hard boot sticking onto his chest, and he was reminded vividly of the Quidditch poster on Ron's bedroom wall- the poster with McCleavy from the Chudley Cannons who had his right foot triumphantly stamped on a bludger. The bludger struggled against his foot, the Quidditch player giving an eternal wink from the poster. Harry would probably never see it again.

There were many things he would probably never see again. Maybe the last thing he would see would be the ex-Auror's ruddy face positioned above his own, and that would mean-

That would mean he wouldn't ever see the cracked tea cups stuffed into the cupboard at the Burrow. He would never see the little threads falling out of Dobby's socks again. He'd never see the curl of Hermione's neat handwriting, or the silently displeased looks from Madam Pince when he'd act carelessly with a book, or even how Umbridge's face went a pudgy red color whenever she was insulted. And he wouldn't see-

He wouldn't see Auguste again. He'd never see Auguste again.

Harry felt like crying but wasn't able to, and that fact only made him want to cry even more.

Moody leered over him, pointing his wand. A spell hit him in the face abruptly, loosening his vocal cords and eyes and stony mouth. For the first time he was glad it had been raining so the man wouldn't know his head was shaking from fear rather than the insistent cold.

The man didn't say anything, breathing heavily with unrestrained glee and still pointing his wand at the boy in the mud.

Suddenly Harry had an idea, "At the end of fourth year, you took me to your office, but you weren't you, t-the real you had been stuck in chest for the second half of the year- you were a-actually Barty Crouch Junior and-"

Moody lowered his wand, seeming baffled before interrupting the boy, "You are to speak only when I allow you to."

He dug his boot even further into Harry's chest, making the boy cry out in pain and almost go unconscious before Moody issued an even more painful stamp on his ribs to jolt him awake.

Moody turned his wand away from Harry, a silver spell weaving itself on his wand and looking quite like a patronus. He spoke to it, "I have found the dark creature in Hogsmeade. Repeat: I have found the dark creature in Hogsmeade. Send backup."

It galloped off in the opposite direction, leaving Harry even more confused, and the brief silence was interrupted by the ex-Auror, "You have one second to tell me where Harry Potter is before I give you more pain than you have ever known, creature."

Harry knew by the crazed gleam in his eye that the man wasn't lying, and it was then that he wished he could see Auguste more than ever.

The boy didn't say anything.

"Crucio!"

Suddenly every nerve in his body was sent alight, sizzling like the wire on a bomb that would explode right as it reached the tip. Unable to contort or escape, his neck wrenched back, head tilting and he heard a terrible scream. That was until he realized it was him screaming.

It was hard to tell how long it took him to go completely unconscious, or how long it took for the fabric of reality to become thinner than the blanket of a beggar. At one point, he thought he may have said Auguste's name before he went completely under, but he never really knew.

HPhpHPhpHP

Distantly, there was the sound of shouting. The sound of shouting mingled with the feeling of being jostled and a strange warmth. The strange sensation of feeling comforted.

Then, from underneath his eyelids he thought he saw a stream of white light passing over his head. Then more jets and streams, and he felt as if he were moving even though he hadn't gotten up.

His head was ringing terribly, but there was one voice he was able to hear past it. "Harry," it said, "Wake up."

The boy opened his eyes dutifully, feeling a soft patter of rain on his face that had calmed down since he had last been conscious.

The world whirled like soap down a drain, but he was able to look up at the blurry figure above him. The figure's face looked angry, but not at him; eyes the color of oxidized blood, a face that was narrow yet strong, with curly black hair.

"_Auguste?_"


	32. Chapter 32

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing, etc

(A/N) Wow, 500 followers! That's amazing, thanks everybody who followed, favorited, reviewed, read, etc.

HPhpHPhpHP

There was a torrential downpour; an odd combination of sleet, hail, and rain falling thick and fast on the earth like tiny comets bulleting down overhead. The ground was slick with water and mud and uprooted weeds that drizzled like syrup over the deeply rooted cobblestones; it was strange, how the quality of the turrets of rain pelting down on the stone shops made the air smell of old lacquer and grit, and how his boots would squelch in the wet soil.

But he paid little attention to it. He paid little attention to it despite how honed his senses were, despite how if he had even the slightest whim he could've sniffed out the new matte finish on a two inch square of plaster in an apothecary five miles away from where he was standing. It was as if the world was teetering on the edge of a black hole, and he could see every individual particle of light struggling on the horizon, but he could scarcely notice when all he wanted was to reach the singularity point.

Auguste quickened his pace, his boots rising from the mud with a loud squelch only to stamp the ground again and again. To an outside observer, he would have seemed to be moving with effortless speed and grace, but to himself he wasn't going fast enough. No pace was fast enough, even though it was only minutes ago that he left the palace in search of it.

He had barely half of an idea of what he was looking for, but it seemed with each step the unintelligible visions in his head grew less and less foggy. He was getting closer, but somehow- someway- it wasn't close enough.

Not only did the images in his head become clearer with each step, but the unmistakable sensation of doom became much more recognizable too. Coldness whipped at his back, sending with it a chill that seemed a prelude to something else.

He turned sharply, dragonhide boots bristling against the mud, and stopped. His head turned slowly, dark curls poking out from under his hood, and he found himself looking at the faded letters on a broken sign above a ruined shop: HONEYDUKES'.

His eyes darted to the shattered windows and then inside, trailing from the shards of glass and bright, round gumballs covering the floor, to the shelves of candies crashed to the floor. He was enraptured by the faint scent laced all over the shop- the scent of fear, adrenaline, stray drops of blood, and...

An unethereal growl frothed up from his throat, the guttural sound of it piercing the air.

The scent of what was _his_.

Harry.

And another smell; the smell of dusty wool and cockroaches. The smell of who was hunting what was his.

That was when he knew precisely what he was looking for, precisely what had seemed to motivate him to move without any cause; the need to move came back full force and he darted down the wide streets with an acute ferocity.

The sleet and the shops and the road and mud and blinkering stars passed by in a rush of indistinguishable gray light, the sights and sensations altogether meaningless to the vampire. He cut through mazes of streets, alleys, corners, and crevices, causing wet soil to patter onto the buildings whenever he made a particularly sharp turn.

He was growing closer.

Thump, thump, thump.

Was that the sound of blood in his ears or the sound of his feet?

He could hear nothing past the thickness of his head, nothing at all, not even the breaks of thunder above his head, or the edges of his cloak catching onto his ground, or even the senseless drips of water on his hood.

Nothing, except for one sound; two sounds, really. Firstly, he heard a steely voice, "Crucio!"

And secondly, the most bone-chilling, angering, titillating and terrible sound he had ever heard- a scream. A scream, and for a long while nothing else aside from a pathetic, limp calling: "_Auguste_."

That was when the vampire found himself barreling towards the source of the sound, the buildings becoming gray blurs jetted against the night sky in his peripheral. He didn't stop when he saw the silhouette of the rotund figure standing over another, smaller silhouette lying on the ground. He recognized immediately the sickening scent of wool and cockroaches.

The scruffy, disgusting human, with his back turned to Auguste, did not notice the vampire until it was too late- he stood a foot away from the human, one arm extending forward and clenching onto the man's fat neck and ripping him away from the smaller figure lying unconscious on the ground.

Auguste looked the unconscious figure, eyes traveling over dark hair matted with rain water and blood, vision trailing along a pale, battered face and along the rest of his body.

Harry. His Harry.

He turned to the man struggling against the grip on the back of his neck, but Auguste held on tighter still, grasping even harder until he could feel bones snap with an audible crunch.

Alastor gritted his teeth, holding in a scream and trying in vain to contain his preternatural fear, and choked out words, "_Dark creature scum_."

The ex-Auror dropped his wand reflexively, watching with a twinge as the vampire snapped it underneath his boot.

"You."

Auguste wanted to crush every bone in the human's body, wanted to torture the man until he was nothing but fine grains of dust in the wind, but the sound of a pop in the air that sounded uncannily similar to apparition made him instead throw the man forcefully into the nearest building.

He turned at the sound of more pops in air, watching with vague surprise as jets of light started flying towards him immediately from more silhouetted figures.

"Confringo!"

"Expulso!"

"Expelliarmus!"

The vampire almost engaged them, interrupted only by a weak groan emanating from the ground. He kneeled, still dodging the flashes of lights and sounds that barreled towards him, and edged towards Harry until he was able to hoist the boy into his arms.

One figure stopped shouting curses at Auguste, his wand lowering slowly, and as the vampire sniffed he could tell the man was not entirely human. A werewolf.

Auguste continued to dodge, watching as the rain seemed to catch the light of one vibrant red spell and reflect the gleam right onto the werewolf's face.

He had mousy, auburn hair that stuck to the harsh edges of his forehead, with three parallel lines that resembled scars running from one end of his sharp jaw to the other. His features seemed strong, but somehow the lilt of his brows and the way his shoulders heaved made him look all the softer.

The vampire just barely noted this, but what he did notice, from the brief jet of red light that darted just left of the werewolf's head, from the red light that only momentarily made his expression clear before shrouding it the darkness of the night again, was horror. A barely restrained, unspoken horror that had lit in the man's eyes. The type of horror that seemed to come from realization- and what was the werewolf looking at?

Why, the werewolf did not look at Auguste at all, instead he had been looking at the boy in his arms.

Odd.

Auguste pushed the information aside, continuing to cradle Harry before covering the boy with the edge of his robe to protect him from the rain, and the Vampire Lord spoke with all the power befitting a monarch, "Mark this day as the beginning for you humans have waged a war."

The figures continued their reign of spells, making the vampire dodge each successive one with ease only slightly restricted by the boy in his arms.

The werewolf spoke, clawing at the wands of his comrades, "No, stop, no- that's Harry-" he said, "He has Harry with him, you'll hurt him-"

The vampire shuffled for the locket around Harry's neck, grasping it in his free hand and hugging his arms more tightly, "Soif."

The world whirled in a wash of sounds and colors, and by the next moment he had landed in his expansive study. He rushed out into a long corridor of his palace, taking the first chance he had to look down at Harry and study him closely.

The boy was breathing shallowly, a mixture of blood and water pooled from his pale face onto Auguste. It seemed to be coming from everywhere, but the worst wound was likely from the back of his head, followed by the other bruises and cuts dotting his body.

"Harry," the man said, "Wake up."

The rain from his hair dripped onto the boy, making his eyes flutter open, "Auguste?"

The vampire, still incensed, let a sigh of relief mixed with a soft growl, "Incompetent brat."

He continued to trudge through the corridor, letting out a call that was met with the sound of steps from behind him.

"Mi'lord," a servant gasped before he remembered his propriety and dropped down to a low bow, "You are soaked!"

His grip on Harry became tighter, more servants popping up from the stairs and other rooms as well as curious guards, "Call a healer and prepare a room, now."

Everyone was startled into a flurry of activity, and as others rushed off to find the medic, Auguste was led through the corridor with a pack of servants.

"Mi'lord, are you physically sound?"

He ignored the inane question, instead focusing wholly on his wounded mate, and growled as several diagnostic spells were cast on him.

Moments later, a team of five healers appeared in the corridor, approaching the boy he still held without question and when one of them tried to feel his forehead with a gloved hand Auguste almost crushed all the bones in her arm.

A rather matronly looking healer who he had come to know well gave a low bow followed by a stern look, nonetheless seeming unphased by the knowledge that she was about to lecture the Vampire Lord, "Your grace, this boy needs treatment quickly and you are, if you'll please excuse my lack of propriety, getting in the way."

He was led like a stubborn child through the corridor to the closest available room that could be used.

The moment he reached the doorway, Harry who was drifting back into unconsciousness was taken from his arms and the door closed shut. He rattled the knob, incensed when it didn't open, and the matronly medic, Healer Wainwright, came to his side to assure him that things would go a lot more quickly and safely if he stayed out of the way.

Numbly, he allowed a servant to take his outer robe and another one to place a heated towel over his shoulders, soon later finding himself seated in an armchair when he refused to leave the corridor as someone had dragged the seat out of the sitting room.

Healer Wainwright had busied herself with the task of casting diagnostic charms over Auguste, assured that no lasting damage, if any, had occurred. It was a long while until she spoke again, "Mi'lord, who is this boy?"

He didn't reply for quite a long time, for so long in fact that the woman was wondering if he hadn't heard her until he threw her a furtive glance, "What I am going to tell you must not be imparted to anyone else, is that clear?"

The remaining servants took that as their cue to leave, and without warning they scurried from the corridor after bowing lowly to Auguste.

The healer nodded, "Crystal."

"He is my mate, I'm bonded to him, somehow." He expected her reply but continued when she said nothing, "I know it because I can feel it."

"Is that all?"

The elder vampire leaned into the back of the chair, resting his elbows on the arm rests and interlocking his fingers, "He _was_ human."

"Was?"

"He was a regular human, and I bit him, and that was supposed to be the end of it."

She looked at her Lord; none of it was making sense, "Except?"

"Except something happened that wasn't supposed to happen. He Turned."

The female vampire listened to the steady metronome emanating from the grandfather clock in the study on the other end of the corridor, trying to school her expression into anything other than complete shock, "You mean that the boy is-"

"A vampire, yes."

"And he was-"

"He was a human, yes."

"But that means-" she took a step forward, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial whisper, "He's the Kindling."

The metronome grew to an unfathomable roar, drowning out all the other noises in her heard with a- _tick, tick, tick_. It hurt her ears.

"Yes."

Her voice remained low, "But that's not possible," she said, "That's meaningless prophecy!"

Auguste rose from his seat, raising to his full height, "Just look around you; look around you, and what do you see?" he continued without her reply, "The violence, the outbreaks, the ever-so-slowly tightening restrictions by that Wizarding Ministry on our kind- can't you see it?"

The healer eyed the vampire.

"War is coming," he said, his face darkening with solemnity, "What better time would there be for the Kindling to appear?"


	33. Chapter 33

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I am not making any money off of this

Warnings: swearing, sappy romantic stuff ewwww no way

HPhpHPhpHPhpHP

The storm had calmed down, the formerly fierce pellets of rain now only soft, intermittent patters on the window that wasn't heard over the voracious crackle of the fire.

It was hard to imagine that only mere minutes ago, the weather had been a vicious onslaught of ice and a harbinger of cold that could have drowned a man, only to now had been reduced to quiet drops on stained glass. It was also equally hard to imagine that mere minutes ago, the Order had watched as the infallible Moody was nearly killed and a student was abducted by a dark creature.

The Headmaster sat at his desk, tapping the mahogany with long, spindly fingers while the other hand threaded through his beard as if in thought. His eyes darted from over the top of his half-moon glasses to the fifteen other faces in the room.

Remus, Miss Nymphadora, Arthur and Kingsley sat piled on a chaise positioned in front of the fireplace on the opposite end of his office. The three latter, soaked to the marrow yet doing nothing about it, gave Lupin consoling pats on the shoulder.

The other professors and everyone else milled around the room, some still dripping yet others completely dry, and some remained unearthly still while others put up a vague pretense of being interested in the trinkets stored about the room.

The one thing that seemed strangely unanimous was the solemn, brooding glances they would throw to each other, as if they were holding a furtive conversation in their heads.

Between them all, the only thing that seemed abundantly clear in the festering silence was that a student had been abducted; a student not yet identified, yet who at least three Order members were assured was Harry Potter.

The Headmaster continued to tap on his desk, each finger falling in succession of each other in a rhythmic way. It was the only movement that belied his nervousness, and the only sound that contrasted so very starkly against the dull silence that had filled his office.

"Would you stop that incessant tapping?" Everyone looked up at Snape, who in response gave them a waspish sneer before adding completely unrelatedly, "It can't have been the Potter boy."

Remus perked up at that statement, looking up from the marble floor for the first time since he had returned to the school and with his ears twitching very slightly in piqued interest.

The Headmaster leaned forward, "What leads you to believe this, Severus?"

The professor was silent for a long while, seeming as if the ground had slipped from under his feet, "It just can't be," he reaffirmed to himself more than anyone, "He may be daft, but I hardly believe any one boy could be responsible for such a feat of stupidity to leave the castle, fully having suffered the consequences of that before, in the night and in this storm. He's impertinent, surely, but no one could be that stupid."

The room's only reply was to throw him more terse looks, no one finding it within themselves to argue except for Tonks, "We know damned well that it had to be a student- I'm not saying who, I don't know who- that the dark creature picked up and apparated away with; we know that. It had to be somebody," she argued, "Maybe it was Harry, maybe it wasn't-"

"No, it was Harry." Remus jumped up from the couch cushion as if an electric current was coursing through his veins, "We've got to go out there and find him."

Everyone was spurred into action, some moving to get up, others ready to leave through the door, some shouting in argument and others making placating gestures.

Sprout was the first one to talk who the room listened to, speaking with a squeaking voice, "Let's just wait for Professor McGonagall to get back and confirm who's missing. Even then we have no idea where to look." she said, arms extended and lowering as if to cool a simpering pot, "First of all, how do we even know it's Harry to begin with?"

"One has to admit that he does have a penchant for finding danger," Dumbledore half-joked, letting out a sound that was closer to a death knell than to a chuckle.

The room fell into a thick silence once again, the stillness of it only broken by the way Remus seemed to pace uncomfortably throughout the office until mustering the courage to speak.

"When I spoke to him last, there was something off-" he stuttered, hesitating, and webbed his fingers together with an unfathomable look on his face, "There something off about him, you know? Something off about the way he looked and what he said, something that should have warned me."

Dumbledore absorbed every word, fingers paused mid-stroke through his beard, and no one dared to interrupt the werewolf.

"Being what I am, it's like I could smell that he was hiding something from me," Remus said, "The last time I spoke with him, he said there was something he should tell me but that he didn't know how to say it. He said that there was something happening to him, and I was definitely worried, but I had no idea it could be- that it could be something serious-"

At that moment, the man was interrupted by the sound of McGonagall's voice saying "Jelly Bellies" on the other side of the room, and soon thereafter the door opened.

She gave a courteous nod to the Headmaster, her steps very brisk and her lips pursed tautly, "Ms. Granger and the Weasley twins have confirmed it," she said, a Scottish accent lining her mouth, "Mr. Potter is missing."

The Headmaster watched Remus from the corner of his eye, seeing his frantic pacing gradually diminish until he turned completely motionless. Tonks came up behind the man, placing a small hand carefully on his shoulder as if afraid even the slightest touch could cause him to crumble in on himself.

Dumbledore was surprised at how quietly unphased everybody seemed, but quickly realized that they had all anticipated it was Harry who had been taken in the first place.

"I don't think that dark creature hurt the boy," Kingsley said, breaking out of his usual quietness.

"Why do you believe that?" the Headmaster prompted.

"Did anyone notice how gently the dark creature- whatever that man was- picked him up?" he stressed, "It was like he didn't want to hurt Potter, far from it. In fact, it was like he thought we were the ones hurting the boy."

"Yeah, except," added Tonks, the color of her hair growing more vibrant, "There was only Moody, the dark creature and Harry there when we arrived- who else could've made Harry unconscious if not the creature?"

Remus interrupted their argument, "I saw him tuck Harry into his robes, like he was trying to protect him from the rain; I saw a spell pass near his face and light it up when he was looking down at Harry and in that moment, it almost looked like-" his voice choked, "It almost looked like he couldn't possibly think of harming him. Like he cared about him."

"How could that thing- whatever he is- know Harry, though? How?"

"I don't know," he said, "but he'd been acting so strange lately-"

Snape moved from his leaning position on the wall, tucking his arms into sleeves and hiding a look of masked surprise, "Are you insinuating that the Potter boy and the dark creature have been associating with each other?"

"I'm just saying that, that's what I saw!" Remus barked, trembling from the residual cold, "And the last thing the creature said- he said something about causing a war."

The Headmaster sensed the rising tension in the room and, determined to cut it off, spoke, "We have no way of knowing what really happened before we arrived at Hogsmeade until Alastor is conscious again," he said, "We are all tired; let us adjourn this meeting for there is nothing we can do today."

There were a series of nods, soon the office became gradually empty as the Order and the awoken professors trickled out one by one, leaving Remus and the Headmaster alone.

Remus gave him a searching look, as if prepared to say something, before an expression of resignation passed over his face, "I should go and tell Sirius, sir."

Dumbledore only nodded, wavering the man away and savoring the time alone with his thoughts.

The rain had finally stopped.

He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath that was interrupted by a flash of green from the fireplace. Madam Pomfrey's face wafted up in the smoke and she gave no introductions, "Draco Malfoy has been admitted to the Hospital Wing with neck injuries."

The Headmaster leaned forward, eyes narrowing, "Neck injuries?"

"Scared out of his wits, but it's nothing more than some bruising." she said, "He won't say what caused it though."

Interesting.

HPhpHPhpHP

The first thing Harry realized when he awoke was a symphony of sensations all over his body, ranging from the severe ache in his head to the protracted sting in his chest. Everything hurt and his sharp intakes of air seemed to be the conductor who would take the sting in his chest to the fiercest highs and the ache in his head to the deepest lows.

A groan slipped past his lips, eyes blinking open until he found himself staring up at the ceiling above his head.

He didn't even have time to contemplate the unremarkability of the swathes of dried white paint overhead before someone saw it fit to force him to sit up. He was startled at the grip on his arms and the feeling of a hand on his back, the sight of ceiling disappearing as he was met with an equally white wall.

He blinked, baffled, and inched his head to look over at four women dressed in the same, eggshell white uniform that were each involved in their own separate activity.

The first one was blonde with a starkly pale face, who seemed very feminine aside from her bony, broad shoulders. Her hands were busied with the task of combing through his hair and, at some points, sending painfully taps at the back of his head for what seemed to be no reason.

The others were deeply involved with different tasks, doing equally painful things to him like poking his bruises as irritatingly as possible before casting spells that made them diminish in size.

He closed his eyes for only a moment, but it seemed that none of them allowed it because he felt a harsh tap on the side of his face followed by the sensation of cold glass pressed to his lips.

He opened his mouth before his eyes, realizing he was choking on a potion and then trying to keep himself from spewing it everywhere.

It wasn't long after he took a short breath that another vial was forced up to his lips, the contents of it were a vibrant shade of pink. "Where am I?"

The blonde nurse was the only one to address him, "You are being in treated in the palace of His Majesty."

He perked up despite the ache of his ribs, wincing only slightly, "Wait, so Auguste's here?"

There were a series of four gasps, "Do not address him that way!"

One of them looked ready to launch into a long lecture, but they were interrupted by the sound of a commotion just outside of the door. Harry could only make out a few words from beyond the thick walls- "awake... I order... let me through..."

The door very quickly opened after that and a tall, familiar figure stepped through the entrance. Harry scarcely recognized the four, simultaneous low bows in the room, and all he seemed able to fixate on past the pain in his head was a pair of warm, yellow eyes looking directly back at his.

"Harry."

At the sound of his name, he launched from off of the bed and collided into the man's chest, unaware of the terrible resultant aches all over his body. Before he collapsed to the floor, he felt long arms snake across his waist and hoist him into a more suitable position.

Harry clawed at damp, wool coattails and buttons and layers of cotton just for the physical need to be closer to the man. It seemed that in a mere matter of seconds all the anger, exhaustion, loneliness and sadness within him had dissipated like smoke from an open jar.

Carefully, Auguste turned around, never relinquishing his tight grip on the boy, and plopped himself on the bed while positioning Harry on his lap.

"Daft boy."

"I'm sorry."

"Stupid brat."

"I swear I can explain."

Auguste fought against the tightness in his throat, grazing his fingers through the boy's hair, "Just stop talking."


	34. Chapter 34

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing

HPhpHPhpHP

Auguste had stayed with him for hours, at some points the two of them just listening to the sounds of their own breathing, and at other points being spurred into discussion by an off-handed remark one of them would make.

The two of them had slowly devolved from sitting up to lying down in a loose huddle, growing closer for some long moments only for the spaces in between them to grow farther apart at others- undulating liking lapping waves of the sea meeting the ocean, pulled together by their own forces and repelled when their solidarity grew too real.

It was the most peace Harry had felt in what seemed like months- what likely had been months- and with peace came the possibility of sleep.

Every once in a while, after the healers had long since left, when the only sound that filled the silence was breathing and the shuffling of fabric, Harry would feel an overwhelming need to let his eyes drift shut. And every time he did, every time his eyelids inched even the slightest amount lower, he'd be treated with a soft slap on the side of his face.

The first time this happened, not even a full half hour after the rain had finally stopped, Auguste had justified himself by saying that it would be unwise to fall asleep with a concussion when it could be a prelude to further brain injury. The vampire then proceeded to goad him into a more conscious state by demanding information or asking questions.

"Tell me what happened this evening, from the beginning."

The boy blinked drowsily, opening his eyes more widely and swallowing the thick saliva in his mouth that tasted of sleep. His head felt distinctly jarred by the question, and he paused to sift through his memories as if the vampire had asked him of some distantly gone event, "I left the common room, my common room, and was- I was walking through the halls, I think."

"Why?"

Harry lifted one heavy hand to pat the back of his head gingerly, eyebrows scrunching in thought, "I wanted to be alone, for some reason; I don't remember. I was walking and, I think- oh, right! Malfoy was there," his voice turned bitter, "We were arguing about something, I hit him and-"

He grew silent, causing the vampire to jostle him.

"He was bleeding, and I very nearly-" the boy paused, his gut churning, but his head pounding enough to make the memory seem more like a dream than something that had actually happened, "I nearly drank his blood. But someone- Moody, yes, my old professor- stunned me."

There was a low growl.

"He knew I wasn't- that I wasn't human, but I don't think he knew that I was me. And then- suddenly I'm running through a tunnel, but he followed me- right? Yes, yes, he did." Harry's ears rang. "Then he chased me outside- it was raining, I remember- and I almost got away but he stunned me again. I thought that maybe I was going to die, and then past that I don't remember anything."

Harry stared up the white ceiling from the four-poster bed searchingly, as if seeing something beyond it, before he shifted uneasily to his side and met the elder vampire's flashing eyes.

Auguste's eyelids were low not a lulling sense but in a mystifying way, irises gleaming with a calculated look. Something had shifted just past his eyes that Harry couldn't identify, and when he spoke his voice seemed firm yet carefully controlled, "The last time we spoke- in the wine cellar- you had said you would be back the next evening," his voice didn't even rise the slightest half-note, "Where were you?"

Harry remained silent; there was something eerily familiar about his tone, his look and sheer self-containment that reminded the boy of Vernon. Back at the Dursleys' he had always known when he made some terrible, irrevocable mistake when Vernon was at his calmest. His Uncle would call him from below the stairs, his voice level and sober, and all he could do was wait for the first strike.

The boy decided quite readily he didn't like being reminded of Vernon.

"I'm waiting."

Harry didn't even realize he hadn't spoke, and he found himself inching farther away from the vampire as he started to speak. "I wanted to see you- really, I did, I wanted to see you more than anything. But-" he paused, "Dumbledore knew there was something in the school- a dark creature."

The man nodded for him to continue.

"And I heard that he had put up Aurors through the school, and I couldn't risk being caught. I just couldn't."

He cringed when he saw the vampire's hand move, as if expecting to be hit, but instead Auguste only slid it over and onto his back to draw him closer. The reaction hadn't gone unnoticed, but he said nothing about it.

On and on through the night the cycle of drowsiness, falling asleep, only to be jostled and questioned at length, occurred.

At one point, a healer had come back into the room to cast a diagnostic spell on Harry, paying special attention to his head. He endured with a pronounced shiver the sensation of having crawlers probe his brain, and when she was thankfully done she withdrew her wand, "No vigorous activity for the next few days and avoid harsh lighting."

He felt Auguste move, and was taken aback when he saw the vampire standing right next to the healer. "And there is no physical injury that should cause worry?"

She blinked in response, seeming somewhat vexed, as if she hadn't expected him to show any signs of worry, "None, your Grace."

He looked at Harry coolly, "And he's allowed to sleep now?"

"He shows no signs of traumatic brain injury," she said, "So yes, Mi'Lord."

Without another word, he left through the door, with the healer trailing awkwardly behind him and throwing one more questioning glance at the boy.

Slightly hurt, more than a little bit confused, and yet overwhelmingly tired, Harry allowed himself to drift back onto the pillows only to fall into a deep sleep.

HPhpHPhpHP

Auguste strided down the corridor, his back straight and arms swinging loosely by his side. The healer half-jogged to keep up with his pace, opening her mouth as if to question him but deciding that wouldn't be a good idea.

He looked down at his clothes mid-stride, the fabrics no longer damp but disheveled with stray flecks of blood and dirt on his cuffs and torso, "Go find a servant and tell them to gather the council." he said, "They'll know what you mean."

HPhpHPhpHP

McGonagall's office looked just as imposing as she did. The gritty stones were stacked tall to the ceiling, only interrupted by one narrow window that looked like it was sucking in a deep breath. The glass rattled in its wrought frame every time even the slightest breeze touched it, letting a gray morning light skitter onto the floor and walls. It was devoid of personal items, only one bare picture frame and a tinkering lamp giving the office any sense of warmth.

Even the small fireplace on the opposite wall looked choked by cold and puffs of ash.

Hermione, Ron, the twins, Neville and Luna looked just as gray as the room, their faces lined with worry and each of them sporting dark circles underneath their eyes. "Gone- he's just gone?"

The professor inhaled, giving them a mute and yet much softer look. "The Headmaster had elected me to tell you that, yes, Mr. Potter-" she hesitated, "Mr. Potter has not been located yet."

Neville fidgeted the most out of all of them, his hands rubbing together nervously. "Where could he have left to, though?"

Hermione folded her arms together, hands tightening into fists, and she sidled from Ron's attempts to pat her on the shoulder.

The professor looked down at her desk as if examining the grains of wood for answers, her eyes travelling to the lonely window rattling from the wind, before resting on her students' faces. "What I am about to tell you, you mustn't tell anyone for fear it might travel back to the Dark Lord."

There was a series of nods ranging from tense to excited.

"We have reason to believe that Mr. Potter was abducted by the dark creature that has been entering the school," she said.

They bursted into a frenzied panic, each asking questions.

"But-"

"How?"

"Where?"

"Is Voldemort-"

McGonagall gestured for them to quiet down, "We don't know whether the Dark Lord is involved or not, but at some point last night, the Order found a student- likely Mr. Potter- unconscious in Hogsmeade and was unable to recover him from a dark creature that apparated away with him."

Hermione's terse expression quickly morphed to fear, her lower lip starting to tremble despite how tightly her mouth was clamped. "He just had to go and run off again."

"What are you talking about, Ms. Granger?"

The girl ignored the comfort proffered to her by Ron and the twins, "First he ran off to Diagon Alley in the summer-" she said, squeezing her hands vitally, "And then, well, he's just been going off randomly throughout the year."

Ron opened his mouth, scrunching his face in thought, "It's weird, it's like- well, sometimes I've noticed that he gets up at odd hours at the night and leaves the dorm. Never had a clue where he was going or who he was meeting- at first I thought it was his girlfriend but then, well, you know."

He rubbed the back of his head and tousled his hair, face growing tomato red.

"He's been acting strangely all year." Hermione added, "Like he was hiding some big secret from us and it was hurting him."

McGonagall absorbed every word, leaning forward, "Do you have reason to believe that Mr. Potter knew this dark creature?"

No one replied for a long time.

"I don't, I don't think so but-" Ron began, stopping short and shaking his head, "No, there's no way. There just isn't."

The whole room was spurred into a lengthy discussion, and the only one who remained near-motionless was Luna. She inched towards the window, looking out at the blanket of clouds in the morning sky and giving the glass a knowing smile.


	35. Chapter 35

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing,

(A/N)

*His/ Your Grace, Mi/My Lord, His Highness all refer to Auguste for those who are lost

**This chapter is in an OC POV.

HPhpHPhpHP

The Council was composed of seven members- seven members who were selected by the upper echelons of vampiric society based upon charm, versatility, intellect, worldliness and merit. Nominated by lesser nobles and the lower classes, these seven- sometimes referred to as the "Lucky Seven" or as the "_Creme de la Creme_"- were picked by a process of elimination from the high ranking elite.

The final selections are completed by the Vampire Lord himself, a process rumored to take days or possibly even weeks of rigorous evaluation on multiple facets of character, loyalty, and presence of mind. Every nine years the reselection of the Council begins, starting out with nominees in numbers ranging from fifty to a couple hundred in size, and whittled down to only fourteen candidates before the final selections begin.

And the Council's purpose? No one was really quite sure, and if one would ask a passing vampire, they would likely reply vaguely with a mumble about them being an advisory system, or spout something off about the enormous social prestige of being a present or former member, or elsewise would haughtily deem the question "meaningless."

No one knew, that is, except for the Vampire Lord and the Council itself. But what some individuals did know is that the Council had at least one bureaucratic power separate and not equal to their Lord- if all seven of them happened to disagree on a specific political movement by the Vampire Lord, then they had the power to counteract his agenda. Most vampires, however, were likely unaware of this seeing as how nothing like it had occurred for at least two-hundred years.

In fact, most vampires, including the ones in the castle, were unaware of many political things that concerned either the Council or their ruler. However, if there was one thing they did know, it was anything and perhaps everything concerning their leaders' social lives.

They would flit like butterflies from one rumor to the next, extracting any and all information that they could, and any natural conversations about their ruler and the most prestigious classes of society typically included these statements:

"Oh! So-and-so saw whom at the Royal gala?"

"...I heard he was the great-great-grandson of Tchaikovsky!"

"Really, darling, an affair?"

"Yes, yes, well I heard..."

In the past couple weeks, Midas Holden, a Council member himself, appointed with Treasury tasks, had heard none of the normal conversation. He had endured rumors of a different nature; rumors concerning his Lord and associates.

More specifically, rumors involving his Lord and a certain boy in the castle.

Midas had always prided himself on avoiding the vapid ramblings of his peers, but these particular whisperings were hard to ignore. They seemed to buzz perpetually in his ears, always in the background, and they were of a completely different quality than the rumors that had usually plagued his Lord.

The first time he had heard of it was from two young ladies perched on a chaise in the parlour of a local Apothecary. Dressed unfittingly in garish shades of maroon and gold, the two of them nattered on about one topic or another that he paid no attention to until one of them said 'His Grace'.

Lurking in the corner and guised with a hood, Midas had understandably felt piqued interest in hearing about his Lord- after all, it was partially his duty to stay caught up on the public opinion, wasn't it?

The one in the maroon robes spoke first, dropping her voice to a whisper for propriety's sake, "Haven't you heard about it?"

"No, not a word; does it have to do with Madam-"

"No, no," the other one said, "You know my niece knows someone who works in the Royal Palace, yes?"

A fervent nod.

"Well! She says that recently his Grace has been acting- well- oddly, I suppose. That's the way she put it..."

Midas leaned more out of the corner, brushing his thick golden locks over his ear to hear better.

"And apparently, she heard from this servant, that it all started when this young boy appeared in the castle. No one had ever seen him before, but apparently my niece heard from the servant who had been hearing from his Grace's personal servants that he's very close to this boy."

"Really! Does anyone have a clue who he is?"

"Personally, I think that maybe he's a long lost cousin-"

He had stopped listening to the two women after that, choosing with a sneer not to involve himself in such vapid conspiracies. He had stalked out of the Apothecary, sporting an infamous look of contempt and pulling the hood over his head further to escape notice.

It must have meant nothing, he thought, of course it did- after all, there had been many, many more rumors concerning his Lord of all the varieties under the sun. He'd heard of brothers lost at sea, competitions for the throne, secret courtesans and harems, and even that he had preferred a blood type of A negative.

It was meaningless- it had to be- and yet something about that particular rumor rang true, and resonated more clearly in his head than any of the others.

Surely enough, after that day, he had heard the rumor everywhere, from the highest circles of society to the seediest moonlit bars. And all of them- all of whisperings- pertained to his Grace and a young boy of questionable origin.

He's a younger brother, some would say, others would list different possible relations, and Midas had heard it all- cousin, half-brother, illegitimate son, and friend. Once, if he wasn't mistaken, he had even overheard someone say that the boy was his Lord's lover- which of course amused him to no end!

And did Midas believe these rumors? Quite honestly, he didn't know if he did. But it always lingered at the edge of his senses- his senses which saw fit to tell him that something more was going on, and that he should be terribly curious. And he was.

He hadn't seen his Lord since 'the mystery of the boy' broke out- and that was weeks ago. Why else would he keep the Council away for so long if he weren't hiding something?

The only thing Midas could do was wait, wait for when his Grace would find it fit to call the Council. He waited for many nights, coolly keeping his distance from the palace, until he heard it. The Call.

As soon as he had felt the familiar burn in the center of his palm and saw the faint glow of light emanating from the center, he knew. He had rushed to the castle as fast as he possibly could, and when he got there, he was dutifully led out of the reception room and into _La Salle du Conseil_.

He was the first member there, it seemed, and he took a quiet moment to suck in the soft scent of cedar and Spring. The servant girl tugged on his chair at the far end of the room, pushing his seat back in as soon as he sat and leaving towards the exit with a low bow.

"His Highness will be here shortly," she said before skirting away, shutting the door softly behind her.

It had never ceased to amaze Midas how rich and expansive the Boardroom was; the walls were swathed with coats of velvety-red paint so thick and lush that they almost felt custardy to the touch. Trimmed with edges of gold and rosewood baseboards, they seemed to expand for miles, meeting the end of the room only when the lacquered table met the end too. It was keenly austere, yet not overwhelmingly so, and all the different grains- whether they be a dark pine, walnut, ash, or oak- meshed well together.

He leaned back in his chair, glancing at the door every couple of seconds while waiting for the other seven arrivals- among them the rest of the Council and his Grace.

One by one, they all arrived, coming into the room with varying paces. First was Aeneas, followed by Castor, Acantha, Erebos, Icarus, and Eirene.

He nodded as each came in, greeting some more fondly than others but nonetheless flashing each of them a golden smile. They were steadfastly seated by servants and treated with low bows.

Icarus leaned forward, taking a deep, loud breath that bordered on obnoxious. He was the first one to voice the room's unspoken thoughts, "I take it we're all curious about the rumors that have been surfacing lately."

No one replied.

The man flashed his fangs, leaning back again, "Oh really now, I know I'm not the only one that has heard them." he said, "Something about a boy, right?"

Midas' eyebrow twitched in annoyance."What makes you think it's anything other than pointless rumors?"

He ignored the question, "I think that this boy- whoever he is- can only mean bad things. His Grace hasn't called us here in weeks, what if this is all some plot to..."

"Icarus, you'll be your own downfall if you keep speaking nonsense like that," Aeneas hissed through gritted teeth.

At that moment, the door pushed open, his Grace striding into the room, and in less then a second the Council stood, giving one long half-bow to him.

With a wave of the hand, they stood and returned to their seats as he took his place at the head of the table.

His wheat-yellow eyes perused over all of their faces, giving each individual a nod in acknowledgement and examining the dual looks of confusion, anxiety, awe and excitement. "I suppose you all are rather eager to know why I haven't called any of you here in some time," he began, "You are not to distress yourself with that knowledge, I do not mean to replace or shunt aside any of you; however, know that this is not a regular meeting."

Icarus stood without warning, pushing himself upwards with his hands on the table, "Mi' Lord, if I may speak?"

He waved his hand in admission.

"There have been rather intriguing rumors that myself and many of us here have heard of a boy that has been staying in the castle with you, a boy of unknown relation," he said, pausing. "I would like to know if those rumors have any truth to them, if you would be so kind, mi' Lord."

Midas ran an agitated hand through his hair; who did that man think he was?

If only for a moment, he thought he saw genuine shock pass over his Grace's thin face, watching as it dissipated into his infamous neutrality but seeing his hands tighten around each other as if trying to squeeze the vitality out of them. He said something in French under his breath. "At this point in time, I will not disclose such information, and you will not busy yourself with such discussion. Is that clear?"

"Yes, my Lord."

As Icarus fell back into his seat, his Grace rose to his feet and began speaking. "Four months ago the attacks along the border of the Czech Republic had begun, the tensions arising from our kind and human wizards finally breaking out after the murder of Sir Yiri Vasek that was falsely blamed on us."

The Council looked at each other, confused. This was not news to anybody.

"Two months ago, a large anti-Vampiric campaign was sponsored by the Egyptian government after a rebel faction of our kind destroyed the Alexandrian market. Two weeks after that, the movement had spread in the form of political parties campaigning across Libya to the West, and extending into Turkey to the East."

His Grace took in a deep breath, rubbing his hands together and starting to pace throughout the room. He stood straighter, looking more imposing yet with a slightly more rigid gait as he traveled down the length of the table. "In the Proletariat of the South, only a short three weeks ago, Madam Padour, a major figure in the Vampiric Rights Association, was slaughtered by humans."

A chill ran down Midas' spine.

"And in our own capital- Magical Britain- not only has the Ministry been investigating the development of a 'dark creature' euthanasia, but I have also witnessed physical violence imparted not only upon myself but one other that I care dearly for."

The Council shuffled, some standing in shock, outrage, or worry at this admission. They opened their mouths to speak, shooting looks of indignation at each other.

His Grace stopped when he reached the head of the table, having circumvented the entire room. "I am fine," he said, "However, I have called you here today to ask you- what do these events all have in common with each other?"

Midas spoke, his tongue dry, "They are all acts of violence against our kind by humans."

"None of you had to think about it for even the briefest moment," his Grace said, eyes gleaming like two blazing suns sinking into the distant horizon. His face grew unusually solemn, "And that is what truly scares me."

Silence ensued. "Violence has seeped into every crack of our society. You scarcely go a day without hearing of yet another death on yet another border, and you find yourselves no longer wishing for peace so much as wishing for distance," he paused, "And yet you can feel it growing closer, like thunder that's so loud it echoes in your chest. It is completely unavoidable."

His gaze passed over the Council's stark faces, "As the ruler of my people, I can no longer put such violence aside. I can longer turn the other way. It will not go away on its own, we need to think and act quickly. And if I must, I will make sure that every magical human child grows up knowing my face and fearing it, if it means protecting my people."

"What does this mean, my Lord?" Acantha asked.

His eyes grew dark, "War."


	36. Chapter 36

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling and I make no money off of this

Warnings: swearing,

(A/N) Wow-ee, 600 followers! Thank you everybody!

HPhpHPhpHP

When Harry awoke, he half expected the sound of snoring, the irritated creak of an old four-poster bed, and sunlight creeping through a tear in his curtains. He had even more so expected to awake at the sight of a low dorm room ceiling hanging above his head, a soft comforter twisted around his limbs and perhaps even the sight of a half-finished essay crunched under his leg.

Even if those expectations only existed for the briefest moment in time, in that blithe second between asleep and awake where everything seemed simple and nothing painful, it was real.

However, as soon as he had recognized the persistent ache on the back of his head that snaked its way down his spine, this other reality that never was had shattered.

He scrunched his eyes tightly, smacking his lips together and swallowing tersely in an effort to get rid of the dryness in his mouth. His head felt distinctly jumbled, like a formerly complete puzzle that was missing some pieces - or, no - a picture that he had remembered looked one way but when he glanced back was a completely different image.

Only a few things were distinctly clear to him - one, that he wasn't in his dorm room. Two, that he wasn't in Hogwarts at all. And three - three -

Harry blinked his eyes open, vision landing on the dark ceiling above him, before trailing down and over the soft curvature of an unfamiliar wall, then reaching a distinctly organic looking shape angled just slightly beyond his head that was _a_ - _a_ - bed post!

He sat up, ignoring the resultant ache in his head, and suddenly remembered.

He had run away. And now - now - he was, well, with Auguste. He felt somewhat happy that he couldn't think past the cataclysm of sensations in his head, because if he could he didn't know if he would be able to handle the thought of his friends. At the moment, it seemed best to let them be reduced to little more than a bitter taste in his mouth.

Abruptly overtaken with the need to busy himself, Harry had slipped off the bed and out the door.

He was met with a darkened hallway that he hadn't yet grown familiar with, yet that he had seen before on more than one occasion. It must have the same corridor that Auguste's study branched off of, he thought.

Not quite sure where to go, Harry continued down the corridor, warily glancing at the portraits to his left who whispered to each other excitedly. The last time he had confronted them, they had been more than a little bit stand-offish and responsible for him nearly being charged with treason.

He quickened his pace with a resolution not to give them any attention, eyes focusing solely on the path ahead; that was, until a familiar voice called out to him.

"You!" a gruff voice blared, "Boy!"

He wheeled around, finding himself staring at a very weathered, old man sitting in a portrait with a silvery frame.

He sat so rigidly and unmoving that if not for the slow stroke of fingers perpetually laced through his beard and shifting, oily black eyes, one would have thought he was a Muggle painting.

Harry remained silent. He had recognized that portrait.

"I've seen you here before," he growled, nostrils flaring. "You were the Intruder, weren't you?"

"I'm not -"

An elderly woman from the adjacent portrait peaked her head out of her own frame and into the silver one, speaking with a hushed whisper in his ear. "_This is the - boy - our great-great-great Grandson has been consorting with!"_

His white brows raised high on his forehead, a snarl forming on his lips. "Ah, the interloper."

His eyes perused over Harry, examining him much too piercingly for the boy's liking, and his face twisted up like he had been sucking on a lemon. "Doesn't even have the decency to dress properly!"

Harry looked down at himself, blinking with surprise at the silky pair of pajamas he was wearing and suddenly cognizant of the awfully cold marble beneath his bare feet. He was almost certain he hadn't put them on himself.

He made no attempt to hide his face which steadily grew redder and redder, all at once finding himself confused, frustrated and embarrassed. "Do you know where Auguste is, sir?"

"He lets you call him by name, boy?"

Harry nodded.

His coal eyes narrowed inscrutably before widening, a new and unidentifiable emotion gleaming in them. A sort of begrudging acceptance. "He only ever let his mother refer to him that way," his voice had a softer quality, "Died too young, she did, only a decade after myself..."

Harry let his shoulders lilt, feeling more than slightly guilty that he had let himself forget about the elder vampire's mum. Her name been - Cecile, wasn't it? He wondered if Auguste thought about her still.

"Well, run along, boy!"

He stifled his need for answers. "Wait - do you know where he is, though?"

"You think I keep track of His Lordship's antics? _Vous quittez_! Leave!"

He startled at the sudden furor of the portrait, striding backward and accidentally plowing into someone behind him before he could stop himself.

He jumped forward, trying to over correct an imminent fall in such a manner that only made it more inevitable, and summarily plopped on the marble floor.

Before he knew it he was very quickly being pulled back up to his feet, hearing a slew of apologies along the lines of - "I give my deepest apologies, young master! To have so callously caused you to fall is such a deplorable act -"

He turned around and quickly realized the man who he'd bumped into - a man that somehow managed to nervously fidget with his lapel with one hand and try to brush the invisible dust particles off of Harry with the other - was a servant of some sort. He reminded the boy uncannily of a house elf.

"I'm so very, very -"

"Oh, no, it's alright. I'm fine."

He realized the servant had dropped a stack of garments and Harry bent down to pick it up. As he handed it to the unwitting man, he recognized the flabbergasted expression as one that said some natural world order had been flipped on its head.

The man let out a short cough, "I have been appointed to prepare you for after you woke up by His Grace; I have drawn a bath for you, young master, and acquired some clean garments befitting of your status. However, of course, I would very humbly understand if you think myself not worthy of performing such tasks -" sweat collected on his brow, and he glanced down to the rumpled clothing in his hands, "Of course, I will fetch for you some new clothing, if you wish..."

He smiled bitterly, trying not to be reminded of the Hogwarts house elves. "It's quite alright, I could use a bath."

Only an hour or so later, he was freshly washed, dressed and smelling faintly of rosemary, trailing behind the beleaguered servant who led him to a private sitting room. In the kindest and most polite way he could put it, he had basically told Harry to '_stay put_' like he was an errant child.

"His Grace will be joining you shortly."

He had then skirted out of the room with a short bow and eased the mahogany door shut with an inaudible click.

Harry felt both grateful and anxious about the time alone. He didn't know what to think at all, about anything, and the only thing that seemed clear to him was a terrible inability to come to any sort of resolution.

He leaned his head back against the red chaise, finding himself staring up at the vaulted ceiling above him.

Just like that, he had left everything behind. He had left behind both the best and worst years of his life - the only life he had ever known - for _this_. For something utterly unreal and unknown to him, for a way of life that had been forced upon him and a culture he could barely navigate through.

Granted, it wasn't entirely of his own will. He had literally been chased from Hogwarts, and this was where he had ended up.

He felt a little guilty when a small part of himself said maybe that wasn't a bad thing.

A moment or so later, he was startled out of his reveries when he heard the door open and footsteps pad across the carpet towards him.

Harry leaned forward, ignoring the resulting ache in his back. "Auguste."

The corner of the man's mouth quirked upward just the slightest bit, and he took the armchair that ran parallel to the red chaise. "You look rather becoming in that outfit; did you know?"

His face colored. "Oh."

"I chose it myself."

His face grew even redder, and Harry couldn't help but think about how stupid he was acting - he was like a teenage girl with a crush!

He rubbed the back of his neck. "What's going to happen now?"

"I rather like the green trimming around your collar; you know, it matches your eyes."

"I -"

"I'm going to have to find a suitable tailor though, it doesn't quite fit your form..."

"Auguste..."

"You are a bit scrawny, I suppose; the way those cuffs flare out make you look like a clown."

"I need -"

"Did you ever feed at that school of yours? Honestly, your complexion -"

"Stop it!" Harry crossed his arms, grimacing. "I need answers."

The elder vampire dropped the antics, leaning into the back of the chair, and with one swift motion of his hand urged him to continue.

"Well - what do I do now? Am I going to stay here?"

Auguste's eyes narrowed. "Yes, what did you think? That you could actually return to that school of yours?"

"No, not really. But..." Harry stopped and glowered at the floor. He didn't think he was able to articulate just why he needed to hear it aloud, that he wasn't going back. That something so final just had to be said out loud or else - well, how could something be resolute if it wasn't spoken?

"But nothing. I won't having you running with open arms back into certain doom, impudent brat."

"I -"

"It is too dangerous."

He glared, and even though he knew he wasn't going back to Hogwarts, a wild surge of independence made him argue. "You don't know that. I'll go back if I want." he stood, tightening his crossed arms. "You can't control me, you don't even know me! If I don't want to stay here than I won't!"

The man snarled, flashing his sharp canines. "Sit. You're making a fool of yourself."

He stood even straighter. "I have people - I have people that care about me. Friends. I have a life outside of this. I can't just - I can't just leave it all."

"_Friends_, yes? _Friends_ you could tell absolutely everything, _friends_ you could spill your soul to? _Friends_ who would never judge you for what you are? Have you even told these human _friends_ of yours what you've become, a vampire," he paused, searching Harry's face for an answer he already knew, "I thought so. No, I knew so. You've never told them, and you never will, won't you?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Auguste stood, edging closer to the boy, "You've never told them because you know, you know in the deepest and darkest corners of yourself that they would never accept you. They couldn't- because you've become something so fundamentally different from them, something so completely out of their range of acceptance, that I'd be surprised if they didn't kill you on the spot. The only two things a human can offer to anything besides itself is hate and destruction."

Harry remained totally silent, fighting against the terrible heat that rose to his face and the pinpricks in his eyes.

"Every human you've ever known would abandon you, because they are pitiable, hateful creatures. You have seen this yourself, and I was barely there in time to save you from those monsters not but two evenings ago," he growled. "I will damned if -"

Auguste had stopped his tirade when he heard a short, hiccoughing sort of cry, and turned towards the boy whose face had morphed into a pained frown.

Harry looked down at his shoes, expecting the man to continue, but instead was surprised when a warm hand rested on his shoulder and slid to his back.

"I didn't mean to seem so angered, yet it is a sensitive issue for me." his voice had softened considerably, but there was still a strain of tension when he spoke, "However, that does not change the fact that I am _asking_ you to not go back there. You know as well as I do that you would find at very least some enemies there, if you did decide to leave the safety I have to offer you."

Auguste recognized the boy was trying to reign in his emotions and so continued to speak. " I want this to be more than a temporary refuge for you, I want you to consider this place your home - I want you to feel in your element amongst your kind."

_Home_. That word felt bittersweet.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I won't - I won't go back there."

The elder vampire made his face impassive, "That would undoubtedly be the best option." he added diplomatically. "Now, about your tutelage."

Harry rubbed at his face, easing himself back down onto the red chaise with Auguste. "Tutelage?"

"You will still require magical instruction, and seeing how all of this-" he gestured dramatically towards something nebulous and larger than the room itself, "Is all new to you, you will also require cultural, social, and political teaching."

Harry nodded, feeling a little less morose. "Is it really that important, though?"

"It has recently come to my attention that your existence in this palace is no longer a secret to our kind," Auguste said, quickly adding at the horrified look on the boy's face, "No one knows your identity; however, I imagine that at some point you are going to have to reveal yourself to the public and, to some extent, participate in the social arena by my side."

"Do they know that you and I -" he stopped, opening and closing his mouth as if trying to find something to say, "That you and I are -"

"Intimately involved?"

He scratched behind his ear, "Uh, yeah."

"No, not quite yet."

Harry felt a little relieved at that. "So who will be my tutor, then?"

"You will have multiple instructors, yet your main training will come from a man that I trust very well to be a proper teacher." he said, "He will teach you along side a few nephews of mine. Until then you will need a couple of days to settle in, especially with the latent symptoms of that concussion of yours."

Harry nodded, and just like that his new life was set. He was little more than clay that had been cast in a different mold, and he couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever become comfortable.

His first few days in the palace had been jarring, to say the least, even though his activities ranged lazily from sleeping all too much, flipping through books when Auguste was busy with some meeting or another, and being ushered from one room to another by servants who refused to call him anything other than 'young master'.

He had barely seen Auguste in those first few days and while that was likely because he wanted Harry to become comfortable with his new position, and the boy had been grateful for the time to sort out his feelings, it nevertheless only made him feel more acutely alone.

There had been one nice hour where the vampire had found him reading in his study and, instead of urging him out of the room so he could work, had instead plopped on the floor in a spot right next to him and pulled him onto his lap. After he had let out a short squeak, neither of them had said anything to each other, but Harry couldn't remember ever feeling more at ease in the palace than at that moment.

Harry had accidentally fallen asleep, and when he had awaken the other vampire was nowhere to be found but he was draped on a couch with a throw blanket tucked around him.

In all that time he had alone to think, he'd only figured out one thing. That he wasn't ready to confront his friends. Or Sirius. Or Remus, the Weasleys, or even Dumbledore. Not even in his own mind. And he couldn't help but wonder if they knew somehow that he wasn't himself any longer.

HPhpHPhpHP

(A/N) Sorry this chapter is both short, choppy and way late. I was doing, *ahem*, important business things. And such.

Notes:

_1) Vous quittez - (You) Leave!_


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